


Dried Red Blood On His Lips

by MathConcepts



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anger, Angry! Melkor, Big misunderstandings, Blood, Don't let the Gothmog tags scare you off this story, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forced Masturbation, Gang Rape, Gothmog and Melkor talk about Mairon, Gothmog has unreqited feelings for Mairon, Hurt No Comfort, Jealousy, Love, M/M, Mairon loves Melkor, Mairon thinks he's being replaced, Marion is told he isn't worthy, Masturbation, Melkor being cruel but not to Mairon, Melkor has lust for Maedhros, Melkor loves Mairon, Melkor talks about his feelings then denies it, Misunderstandings, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Nothing happens between Gothmog and Mairon, Other, Pining! Gothmog, Protectiveness, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rating: M, Sexual Trauma, Sort of male bonding, Threesome - M/M/M, sort of unrequited love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-08-02 22:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16314032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathConcepts/pseuds/MathConcepts
Summary: Mairon is attacked and raped by a jealous Maia and his compatriots, who envies Mairon, and wants his position as Melkor's Lieutenant. Mairon's rape was intended to make Melkor cast Mairon aside, but Melkor will not be coerced into giving up the things that are his so easily, and he must now revive Mairon's ailing Fea, while wreaking revenge on those who dared hurt the dearest of his possessions. Aided by Gothmog, who secretly harbors desire for Mairon, it's a race against time to avenge Marion, and heal him before he fades forever. If Mairon slips beyond his power to help, Melkor will be required to do the unthinkable for his lieutenant.





	1. The Red Hall

Mairon set his tools down on a table, and pulled his thick leather gloves off his slender but strong hands. Setting the gloves aside, Mairon picked up a cloth and began meticulously polishing the row of tools before him. His fingers danced over the iron instruments as his mind wandered.

His Lord was miles above him, reclining in his great black throne, while Mairon toiled away in the forges below, creating prototypes for weapons and instruments to supply Melkor's armies. By and by Marion's thoughts drifted to the second, smaller throne that stood by Melkor's, that was his. It was an immense honor, to sit in that throne, and command side by side with his Lord.

The throne was a symbol of Mairon's rank and privilege as Melkor's lieutenant, and a source of jealousy to Melkor's horde. Mairon treasured the jealousy, basked in it, the sweet sickness of envy only served to reaffirm that he, above all others was the beloved of his Lord.  
  
A delicate smile curved Mairon's lips, a rare thing, but now in the solitude of his personal forge, Marion let a true smile play at the corners of his artfully molded lips.

A command, low and sonorous, entered Mairon's mind, and Mairon listened. His Lord wanted him. Putting down the cloth and tool he held, Mairon left his forge, and ascended the dark halls to the even darker being above.  
  
Mairon's boots clipped out a scintillating rhythm on the stone floors, it was a crisp and resonating sound, one that announced to everyone who might be present that it was he, Mairon who walked among them, and served to obscure the sounds of someone approaching.

An arm snaked around Mairon's waist from behind, and a hand that smelled of ore clamped over his mouth. Mairon hissed in surprise as he was accosted, and he began to struggle immediately, arms and legs striking out at the person behind him.  
  
Despite his flailing, his attacker dragged him bodily to one of the doors that opened off the main passageway, and flung him through the doorway. Other hands grabbed him,  gripping his wrists like shackles, as he stumbled into the room.

   
Mairon twisted his arms, pulling them inward towards his chest, ascertaining that at most, two people held him, though he could not see them clearly in the dimly lit room.  
  
"Release me!" he commanded, but his words were drowned by the sound of the room's iron door being shut and locked. Mairon turned his head over his shoulder, straining to see his original assailant.

He was rewarded, not by a glimpse of the being's face, but by a blow that landed square across his face, splitting his lip, and knocking his glossy hair free of its bindings, sending it tumbling down his back and over his shoulders.     
  
A cry of outrage rose onto Mairon's tongue, but it was never uttered. A hand seized a coil of Mairon's hair, and used it to yank Mairon's head back, until his head was cradled between the shoulder and neck of his attacker.  
  
A mouth descended onto Mairon's, and a bitter tongue dove into Mairon's mouth, probing and tasting. Mairon bucked and twisted in his captor's grasp, vainly attempting to dislodge his assailant. But the grip on his body held firm, and the assault on his mouth did not abate.

 

Viciously, Mairon bit the organ that was lodged in his mouth, a flush of thick blood flooded his mouth, and the tongue retreated. The hand in his hair and those around his wrists suddenly withdrew. Mairon spat out the blood filling his mouth, and and prepared to shift his corporeal form to a monster of terrible size and might, and eradicate those who dared abuse him in such a manner.  
  
His new form had barely begun to manifest, when a second blow fell on the back of his head, and sent him sprawling face first onto the floor, his transformation interrupted.

 

A boot was inserted beneath his ribs, and he was unceremoniously kicked over onto his back.  Hands clamped onto his ankles, and wrenched his own hands above his head. A weight settled on his middle, and through the daze that the blow to his head had elicited, he beheld his attacker's visage.  
   
The being was tall, taller than Mairon, his skin the color of granite, and his eyes like coals. He was another Maia, a divine spirit like Mairon that that Melkor had drawn into his service. Marion's flaming eyes widened in recognition. This Maia had vied with him for the position of Lieutenant, but had been rejected and consigned to a lesser position.  

The being glared at Mairon, hate gleaming in his eyes, his hand curling around Mairon's throat. Mairon wheezed, air and anger compressing in his windwipe.  
  
  
_"Deoridon."_ he snarled.

 

A sneer ripped Deoridon's face. "Greetings, _Lieutenant."_

 

"Unhand me, you illborn son of a whore!" Mairon seethed with his last reserves of air. A stinging slap answered his words, reddening his pale skin. A choked sound of rage tore from Mairon's throat, Deoridon's sneer deepened, vengeance and lust kindling in his eyes.     
  
Mairon's browns contracted when the physical manifestation of Deoridon's lust pressed against his stomach. Then with a heave that was simultaneous with horrified realization, Mairon bucked Deoridon off, and leapt to his feet. He was intercepted by two arms encasing his waist, and he was thrown back onto the floor, Deoridon looming over him.

"Pardon the rough treatment," Deoridon said unapologetically. Mairon spat in his face.

"I am your lieutenant, I order you to release me!" Mairon shouted, his voice authoritative and and rageful, although a note of hysteria danced in his throat.

"You're not my lieutenant," Deoridon retorted, undulating his hips as he spoke, poking his stiffening length into Mairon's clothed abdomen. Fueled by revulsion, Marion writhed beneath his crushing weight. A glob of congealed saliva and blood slid down Deoridon's face, and fell onto Marion's tunic. 

  
"You're my Lord's whore."  
  
  
Mairon grimaced in disgust at the fluids staining his tunic, and then in anger at the moniker.  
  
"I am no one's whore!" Mairon hissed through clenched teeth. Deoridon seized the collar of Mairon's tunic, and in one wrench, ripped it down the middle, baring Mairon's chest. Mairon gasped as the raw silk tore, and Deoridon's hand groped his chest and cruelly pulled on his peaked nipples.

"Get off me!" Mairon screamed, panic infusing his words and limbs with new energy. Two pairs of hands  snaked forth, clamping Mairon's arms and legs to the floor. Deoridon tore a swath of silk from Mairon's tunic, and bunched it up, then stuffed it into Mairon's mouth, stifling his cries.  
  


With the aid of a curved blade, unsheathed from his waist, Deoridon tore Mairon's leather trousers next, splitting them to Mairon's knees, and baring Mairon's thighs, hips, and flaccid member.   
  
"I should have been my Lord's lieutenant,  _I will be_ his lieutenant, and you will be relegated to nothing," Deoridon spat, as his fingers encircled Mairon's member. Mairon's response was muffled by the gag, and went unheeded.   
  
Deoridon's fingers traveled up and down Mairon's length, coaxing it into unwanted arousal. Mairon groaned as his body yielded to the unwanted pleasure, Deoridon heard, and snorted derisively.

  
"You like my fingers around your cock, you truly are a whore."  
  
  
Mairon's sound of outrage fell on deaf ears. Deoridon's fingers left his member, and two cruel hands tore his legs apart.  
  
  
"When my Lord discovers how you let yourself be taken like a cheap slut, he will cast you aside, and put someone worthy in your place."  
  
  
Two of Deoridon's fingers nudged against Mairon's entrance, and Mairon's breath quickened.

 

"You are not fit to serve my Lord," Deoridon hissed, his fingers breaching the ring of muscle.  "I am." he punctuated his words by driving his fingers deeply into Mairon.  
  
Mairon's accompanying wail of pain elicited laughter from everyone in the room. Deoridon raked his fingers along Mairon's channel, and Mairon writhed in agony as the fingers tore his unprepared channel. The fingers withdrew moments later, and Mairon made to close his legs, but Deoridon wedged his knee between them.  
  
Mairon wrenched his hand free from the grip of one of Deoridon's accomplices, and yanked the gag out of his mouth. A hand descended over his mouth before a word could escape him, and to Mairon's horror, his jaw was pried open, and a metal ring inserted behind his teeth. The sound of rustling cloth and laces being undone followed, and then a slippery, vile tasting cock slid through the ring and entered Mairon's mouth.  
  
 Mairon choked on the taste, disgust broiling in his belly. The next moment, his dry entrance was split open around Deoridon's cock, blood seeping from the broken ring of muscle, staining Deoridon's cock, and lubricating it as it was shoved through his channel.  
  
Mairon's resisting ceased, and he lay immobile, impaled on both ends. The thrusts shook Mairon's body, and the pain was unbearable, hurting Mairon like nothing had before.   
  
Melkor, when he took Mairon first into his bed, and many a time thereafter, was rough and sadistic, often punishing, and though he was callously cruel, he had never pained Marion so terribly.

A mental shout rent through the pain, and Mairon gasped, his nightmarish reality forgotten. His Master was angry. Mairon screamed for help through their bond, only to be blocked by a wall of anger.   
  
Tears formed and fled from Mairon's eyes at the loss of his only hope of succor, and his thoughts were suddenly dragged back into the present by a brutal thrust. The pain that followed lanced up his back. Mairon sobbed and kicked, gasping for air as the member in his mouth obstructed his throat.   
  
Sharp nails sliced into Mairon's skin as Deoridon gripped his shapely legs and hoisted them over his shoulders, applying wet bites to the smooth expanses of skin.    
  
Fresh tears of revulsion, then relief, slipped from Mairon's eyes when a thick and hot substance filled his mouth, and the member in it withdrew. Spitting as best as he could, Mairon drew a deep breath, and pushed at the ring stuck behind his teeth with his tongue.  
  
His respite wasn't long, as a second cock shoved through the ring and down Mairon's throat. The second defilement didn't last as long as the first, for which Marion was sickly grateful. Seed trickled out of Marion's mouth as the second person ejaculated, and withdrew.  
  
Deoridon's thrusts became more erratic at the sight of the seed on Mairon's face, and he rammed into Mairon's channel deeper than ever, spilling his seed into his tight channel.

Still buried within Marion, Deoridon palmed at Mairon's length, and did not stop his ministrations until Mairon ejaculated with a weak cry, releasing seed onto his belly. Only then did Deoridon withdraw and rise to his feet, leaving Mairon sprawled on the floor. Seed and blood trickled sluggishly down Mairon's thighs, and dark bruises were forming on his skin.  
  
Deoridon surveyed his handiwork as he relaced his trousers.

"When I regale my Lord with the tale of what occurred here, he will depose you, and I will be in your place ere the sun sets."  
  
Mairon stirred at the damning words, his heart pounding in his chest. His Lord was evil, the opposite of everything pure and good, but still, he demanded purity and perfection of his own terms, and among Melkor's extensive collection, Mairon had been the best, bright, and untarnished, admirable. But not so anymore.   
  
His Lord would not want a broken toy. He would not lay with what others had now touched, and no seed of doubt could dispel the certainty that, soon, he would be flung away from his high place at his Lord's table, to ekk out a miserable existence from the scraps below.   
  
Mairon hardly heard the room's door open and shut, as his violators left. He curled in on himself, drifting painfully through minutes that seemed like hours, and unaware of the approaching footsteps that sent mighty and resounding echoes through the halls.    

 


	2. Black Wrath

The footsteps stopped outside the room Mairon was ensconced in, the dull clank of orc's feet trailing in their wake. Smoke seeped through the minuscule gap between the door and the floor, and Mairon coughed reflexively as it spread, obscuring the air around him.    
  
The room's iron door creaked open, and admitted a smouldering figure into the room. In humanoid form, Gothmog was tall, his skin dark, but pulsating from within with red patches of heat. Two horns extended from his shaved head, and his ruby eyes swept over the contents of the room, immediately focusing on Marion, who still lay in pitiful disarray on the floor.  
  
Gothmog approached Mairon slowly, cataloguing each visible mark upon his body. With something akin to consternation, the balrog realized that Mairon's usually gleaming hair was dulled, a sure indication of the severity of his injuries.  
  
Gothmog kicked one of the orc guards that tailed him in a pair, sending the orc scuttling out the open door.

  
"You will guard this chamber until my return," the balrog growled at the second orc. "Let no one in." Without waiting for the orc's assent, Gothmog turned on his heel and left the room, swiftly making his way to Melkor's throne room.

Melkor's glittering, hard eyes fastened on Gothmog when the balrog entered, his high brow creasing.  
  
  
"Where is he?" the Vala demanded. Gothmog hesitated to speak, unsure of how his answer would be received.  
  


"...I have located him as you ordered, my Lord."

   
"Then where is he!" Melkor thundered, displeasure palpable in his aura. "I recall that I ordered you to bring him to me, can you not follow a simple command?"  
  


"He is indisposed, my Lord," Gothmog hastened to add.  
  
  
A frisson of ire spread from Melkor, making the room rumble about them.  
  
  
"Indisposed!" Melkor roared. "I call for him and he does not come, and now he sends you back as a messenger!"  
  


"...My Lord," Gothmog began again, but Melkor held up a charred hand, the silver rings adorning it gleaming out against his blackened skin.

  
"Silence." Melkor commanded as he rose from his throne. "Take me to him." 

Gothmog bowed low, and led the way from the throne room, Melkor looming behind him like a great black mountain.  
  
  
"My Lord," Gothmog ventured again, only to recede into silence at Melkor's warning intake of breath. The pair made their way to the room, and Melkor raised a dark brow at the orc sentries.  
  
"Leave." he ordered, waving the orcs and Gothmog away with a sweep of his arm. Obediently, the balrog and the orcs left, though Gothmog lingered a few seconds longer than his wont.  
  
The room's door was flung open with extreme force, the hinges groaning in protest as it was flung against the wall in deference to the one entering. Melkor strode through the door way, his dark robes billowing behind him, and his anger flowing off him like a cape. The sight of the body on the floor arrested his charge into the room, his anger freezing.   
  
  
"Mairon."  
  
  
Sliding between waking pain and unconsciousness, Mairon was oblivious to all, and only heard his name uttered as if it was spoken from miles away. Melkor crouched by his lieutenant, his robes pooling about him. Charred fingers skimmed over skin that was no longer pristine, touching every bruise, and fingering the scraps of silk and leather that still clung to Mairon's form.   
  
Placing one hand atop Mairon's navel, Melkor slid his fingers between Mairon's heavily bruised thighs, then withdrew them.  
  
Lips tightening, The Vala stared at the fluids that stood out in stark contrast to his black fingers, a pinkish mixture of red and white. Melkor had seen that combination so many times before, had harvested it from Mairon just as he had now. But the seed that was mixed with Mairon's blood was not his, and the bruises that dotted Mairon's skin were not put there by his hands.  
  
Anger unfroze and rose like a snarling beast in Melkor. That any would dare touch what was his, was unthinkable, a sacrilege unto the thrice-dammed eyes of Eru. Flicking the fluids disgustedly off his fingers, Melkor thrust his hand into Mairon's hair, his fingers catching on many tangles in the loose curls. Anger flared higher as he noted the absence of the fiery shimmer that usually emanated from Mairon's luxurious coif of hair.   
  
A degeneration of of a Vala's or Maia's physical appearance meant that their Fea was damaged. Releasing Mairon's hair, Melkor removed his outer robe and draped it over his lieutenant's prone form, then gathered him into his arms. He rose then, and left the room, hastening to his private chambers.   
  
  
Melkor's chambers were a miasma of red, black and polished brown, a gathering of red silk, black metals, and carved wood. Melkor entered his chambers, and went into the room where his bed stood. 

With imperceptible tenderness, he lay Mairon on the bed. The red silk and and eagle feather mattress sank beneath Mairon's weight, cradling him. Melkor stripped the last remnants of his garments from him, leaving him naked. Fire roared in the fireplace, and flickered outward, bathing Mairon in a warm glow. 

A boiling spring bubbled in an alcove nearby, overfilling into a stone basin surrounding it. Melkor sopped linen sheets in the boiling water, then wrung them out, and laved  them over Mairon's torn body. The cloths turned pink as they were swabbed between Mairon's legs, and Melkor threw them to the floor, and spread Mairon's legs, to asses the damage between them.  
  
Pain pulsated through Marion's body, binding him to oblivion, leaving him no quarter in the present. Images and voices followed him into unconsciousness, subjecting Mairon to his attack again in his own mind. With the fresh memories, fresh tears sprang anew into Mairon's eyes, and he thrashed and cried out, trying to escape the grasp of phantom hands.  
  
Melkor held down his weakly struggling lieutenant, something akin to concern etching itself into his great brow. The weight of Melkor's hands anchored Mairon to evasive wakefulness. His struggles ceased, as his remaining strength was diverted into forcing his eyes to open.  
  
Melkor's charred fingers prodded at Mairon's still bleeding entrance, and with a surge of strength he did not currently posses, Mairon sat upright, his eyes springing open, a cry of pain falling from his lips.  
  
  
"No!" Mairon screamed, his eyes open but unseeing, terror contorting his features. Drawing his legs to his chest, his hair curtaining his shoulders, Mairon cowered in the middle of Melkor's great bed, tears running in rivulets down his face, his body shaking, his mind in another place.

"Please," Mairon implored his imagined attackers, "Please.."

Melkor reached for him, concern rising, though his expression remained impassive. He grasped Marion's wrists and pulled his unwilling lieutenant to the edge of the bed.

"You must be bathed," Melkor intoned sternly. Mairon did not hear his admonishment, instead fighting aginst Melkor's grasp.

"Calm yourself." Melkor ordered. Once again, his command went unheard, and he dropped Mairon's wrists to hold him about the waist and still his struggles.

One blackened hand clutched Mairon's waist, and the other pressed the last damp cloth between Mairon's thighs again, to soak up the blood leaking onto the coverlets. Mairon flung himself backward out of Melkor's grasp when the cloth breached the crevice between his thighs.   
  
  
"No, No!" Mairon screamed, attempting to cover himself with his hands. "I cannot stand it, please, I'll use my mouth, please.."

Melkor crushed the cloth he held as his fist clenched. Mairon, who was always so prideful and powerful, an unquenched flame, was now scared and trembling, brought low by the hands of a trespasser.

Flinging the cloth aside, Melkor retrieved his outer robe and once more draped it over Mairon. Reaching into the row of shelving that was inlaid into the wall beside his bed, Melkor withdrew a thick glass bottle, and uncorked it. Grabbing Marion about the neck, his hand yet avoiding the bruises linked around Mairon's neck, Melkor tipped the contents of the bottle into Mairon's mouth.

The dark liquid slid down Mairon's throat, and instantly, Mairon's head drooped to the side,  his eyelids fluttering shut over bloodshot golden eyes. Releasing his hold on Marion's neck, Melkor threw the bottle at the far wall, where it shattered upon contact.  
  
The crease in the Dark Lord's brow deepened into a black line. Wiping droplets of dark liquid and crusted fluids from Mairon's face, Melkor pondered the identity of his lieutenant's attacker. This type of violation was commonplace among Angband's underbelly, but Melkor and his high ranking officers never participated in such, unless they fancied a prisoner of war.  
  
Melkor had indeed fancied Feanor at one point, and then Maedhros, though he had never acted on his lust. Maedhros had been especially tempting for him, seeing the proud elf in chains, red hair gleaming dimly, pale skin wet with sweat. The sight had made Melkor's cock heavy in his trousers, although his desire to bed the elf had been minimal. His arousal did not abate, until insight had struck him. Maedhros, with his red hair, and creamy skin, had reminded him of Mairon.

Growling inwardly at the memory, and the surge of heat it sent to his lower belly, Melkor paced his bedchamber, stopping to stand in front of the steadily burning fire.

The flames waved and twined with each other, smoke flitting out in wisps.  The spectacle of the fire was evocative to many things in Melkor's mind, but the foremost was his lieutenant, his little flame.

His, his own. He possessed something no one else should have, and should be rightfully envious of. But envy turned to greed, and greed to obsession, and  _want._ He, among all beings, knew this more intimately than any. 

And when someone truly wanted something, they would stop at nothing to obtain it.

   
"Gothmog." Melkor called mentally, his voice the sharpest, coldest ice.

 

Gothmog came in answer, sparing no time. Melkor received him in his bedchamber, and the balrog averted his eyes from the figure upon the bed. Efficiently, brutally, Melkor seized the balrog's chin in his charred hands, and turned his face towards the bed and it's occupant.  
  
"Was this your doing?" Melkor questioned simply, though his words hung heavy with promised malice. 

Gothmog's burning eyes raked over Mairon's form. Bruised and beaten, bloodied, and defiled, Mairon was still yet beautiful. 

"No, my Lord, I did not...I could not, ever do that to him." Replied the balrog, just as simply. Those words also carried a myriad of meanings behind them, and Melkor read every one.

The beast rose again in Melkor, a specter of rage and jealousy.

"Get out!" roared the Vala.

And Gothmog fled.   

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to make it clear, nothing will happen between Gothmog and Mairon. Gothmog's feelings will be strictly unrequited.


	3. Darkening Waters

Melkor stood and watched Gothmog retreat, his dark eyes stony in anger. Gothmog's desire for Mairon was not as well hidden as the balrog believed it to be, Melkor had been aware from the beginning of Gothmog's infatuation.   
  
But Gothmog was no fool, and above all else, loyal to his Lord. He would not tempt fate by approaching Mairon in anything other than comradeship. Although now, Mairon's attack clouded Melkor's certainty of the balrog captain. If proof came to him that Gothmog had been involved in any way in Marion's defilement, he would be immediately and agonizingly put to death.       
  
Melkor was the rightful ruler of Arda, and no being touched what he had claimed unto himself. Venturing into his bathchamber, Melkor spilled the contents of two more glass bottles into the large pool that rose from a spring beneath the floor, and was encased in a tub of black marble.

Melkor left, and returned with Mairon, whom he laid in the shallow partition of the pool. The water rippled and spread over Mairon, melting away the blood and fluids on his body. Using the hem of his robe, Melkor wiped away the dried red blood from Mairon's lips, where it had undoubtedly leaked from the delicate broken skin.  
  
  
Being a spirit of fire, Mairon's blood burned the liquid that Melkor had introduced into it, consuming it rapidly, and allowing him to return to wakefulness. With his heavy eyelids lifting, came the feeling of a large hand traveling through his hair, and the ache between his legs throbbing. Mairon jolted away from the touch, splashing water fretfully in all directions.    
  
A splatter of twinkling droplets fell on Melkor's face, and Melkor blinked them away, looking studiously at his lieutenant. Mairon's eyes met his, clarity in their golden depths, not the blinding madness of earlier. 

"My Lord." Mairon said hesitantly, his voice echoing with raw pain.

"Who did this?" Melkor demanded without ceremony.

  
Mairon's breath came in shuddering gasps, his mind racing. His Lord knew. Despair welled up in Mairon, he had hoped for more time before his Lord discovered his violation and threw him from his side. As soon as he confessed to the violation, Melkor would cast him aside, disgust and contempt his last parting gifts to him.  
  
A thought entered Mairon's mind, a desperate fiction. Melkor so hated to be scorned, if he pleaded unfaithfulness, Melkor would still cast him hence, but in hatred, not contempt and mocking pity. His Lord's hatred was preferential to his disgust.  
  
His lips trembling, Mairon let his lie tumble forth.

"No one did this, my Lord," Mairon wretchedly whispered.  "I lay with another, and our passion left its mark upon me."  
  
  
The next moment, he was dragged from the water, his forearms locked tight in Melkor's grip.

 

"You lie!" Melkor roared. "I know you better than you truly know yourself, you would not willingly lay with another, you would not be disloyal to me!"

Trembling in Melkor's grasp, his lie rejected, last hope of dignity torn from him, Mairon dropped his gaze to his feet, tears blurring his vision.  
  
Melkor released Mairon's arms and took Mairon's face between his blackened hands, giving Mairon no choice but to look at him.  
  
  
"The truth, now." Melkor ordered, his eyes gleaming dangerously. The tears ran from Mairon eyes, trickling down to wet Melkor's hands with their paltry moisture.  
  
  
"There was three...I was seized in the hall."  Mairon whispered in the lowest of voices. The dangerous light in Melkor's eyes increased.

Mairon's legs collapsed under him, as the pain coursing through his hips and legs grew too great. He fell into a heap at Melkor's feet, and bowed over them in benediction.

  
"My Lord, I beg you, execute me, or cast me away, but do not torment me longer," Mairon wept. "Does my service mean naught to you?"  
  
  
"I do not torment you." Melkor admonished.  
  
  
"You postpone the inevitable, my Lord," Mairon said, each word a wrenching agony. "I know I am no longer worthy of your favor, but please, I beg, do not ban me from your service, I will still humbly serve you, even in the lowest of positions."

  
  
The implications of Mairon's words rankled Melkor, an unfamiliar admonition rearing its head, the urge to prevent loss.

"Those whom are disloyal, those whom that do not obey me, those whom _lay claim to what is mine,_ will be cast forth from my side. You have done no such things." Melkor told his weeping lieutenant.

The words seared through Mairon's mind, eliciting a flare of hope, which was immediately consumed by a darkly devastating thought.  Mairon had committed no crime that warranted his demotion, but still, he was...unworthy. His Lord demanded, deserved only the best from his followers. What could a now tainted being such as Mairon give him?

 

"My Lord," Mairon plead hesitantly, "I am weak, do not shame yourself by keeping me as your lieutenant." The pitiful remonstrance stirred Melkor to anger anew.

"You do not shame me!" Melkor thundered.  
  
Mairon started back at Melkor's raised voice, eyes wide in apprehension and expectation of punishment. The hard, unforgiving lines of Melkor's face softened with some unspoken, unknown emotion, a clemency shown to no other being.  
  
Melkor extended his charred hands to Mairon, and drew Mairon up from the floor, his grip strong, but not crushing.

"Finish bathing." Melkor ordered, maneuvering Mairon to the edge of the frothing pool. Mairon acquiesced, stepping into the pool, and lowering himself into the water. The hot water coursed between Mairon's legs, relieving some of the pain that still dwelt therein, though the last physical traces of Mairon's defilement still remained within him.  
  
  
Melkor dipped his hand into the water, sliding it between Mairon's legs. Mairon stiffened, fear returning to a prominent position in his eyes.

"The filth must be removed." Melkor said, moving his hand between Mairon's thighs and onward, until his fingers pressured Mairon's entrance. Tears still filming his eyes, Mairon's hand sought the ledge of the pool, and grasped it. Yet, his fingers sunk into pliant flesh, not unyielding stone.  
  
Melkor gave no indication that he felt the tight clutch of Mairon's slender hand. Slowly, his burned fingers worked Mairon's entrance open, until the seed bled out into the swirling water.  
  
Mairon's fingers loosened and dropped from Melkor's arm as the last remnants of seed oozed from him. Melkor withdrew his hand from the water, and Mairon's relief was evident in his eyes. Gathering the entirety of of Mairon's hair, Melkor draped the soaked strands over Mairon's shoulder.   
  
  
Mairon's hair was growing rapidly lusterless, as the fire of his Fea diminished, no longer the rich and vivid color of flame. Melkor's fingers plunged amongst Mairon's hair, dissolving its tangles. Cupping up a handful of water, Melkor poured it atop Mairon's head, letting the water sluice away the grime, blood and seed that still clung to it.

 

Mairon stared at the far wall, his gaze glazed and blank, the hue of his eyes a dim yellow, no longer their alluring golden shade.  
  
  
Rage rippled through Melkor, he required, no, absolutely demanded Mairon to be hale and whole, nothing interfering in his imperious and commanding nature.

Mairon was a creature of order and habit, and Melkor relished his ability to break the boundaries of the structure Mairon had built up around himself. One of Melkor's great delights, besides the downfall of the heathen elves, was to witness Mairon come undone by his hand, hearing him call out aloud in the midst of his ministrations.  
  
He owned Mairon's ecstasy, a possession he would never part with.   
  
He hoisted Mairon from the water, his eyes seeking the bruises that decorated his lieutenants body, letting the anger that they brought forth permeate him. Peeling off yet another layer of his robes, Melkor placed the garment on Mairon, pulling it closed and fastening its clasps, concealing Mairon's abused body.  
  
  
"Did Gothmog have aught to do with this?" Melkor questioned, leading Mairon from the bathchamber.

  
"Gothmog...no, no, my Lord." Mairon answered, the words passing his lips in a low whisper.  
  
  
"Who's doing was this?" Melkor pressed, his eyes fastening on Mairon's, demanding the knowledge that Mairon held.

Mairon's lips parted, an opening of a curtain that obscured truth. The next moment, Mairon's eyes rolled back in his head, and his legs buckled beneath him, incoming weakness mixing with pain, rendering Mairon unconscious with a swift stroke. Melkor seized Mairon as he fell, and lifted him onto his bed, where Mairon lay without protest, slack and unheeding.  
  
  
Remembrance suddenly sliced through Melkor's mind as he stood contemplating his lieutenant. There was a war council that begged his attendance, a plot to be nurtured to aid the ruination of his enemies.

His blackened fingers descended upon Mairon's face, tracing over the arch of his brow and ridge of his cheekbone, with the touch of smooth metal, a sword's caress. Mairon had been allotted a seat at each of Melkor's councils, ever since Melkor had rose to a power unto himself.  
  
But now, tradition would break, for the first time, Mairon would not attend the council, would not provide insight or fiery words, as was his duty and honor. Melkor did not begrudge his ailing lieutenant for it, the one who was his attacker would be held responsible for this deficiency.   
  
  
Melkor bent over Mairon, skin touched skin, a pressure at Mairon's temple. Then Melkor straightened, the lingering taste of something, some feeling he could not, would not name, left on his lips where they had brushed Mairon's skin. He departed then, from his chambers. 

When Mairon woke, the chamber was cold and silent,  Melkor's grandiose presence gone, the fire burned out in the hearth. Mairon rose unsteadily, and left the bedchamber, his bare feet making no sound against the black stone floor. Reaching the great doors that barred the outside from Melkor's chambers, Mairon opened them and left, flitting down the stretch of hall that separated his chambers and Melkor's.

Gaining the threshold of his chambers, Mairon entered them. He could not stay in his Lord's chambers, there was no place for a burden and inconvenience. The torches that illuminated his chambers had burned to stubs, leaving them in reddish twilight.  
  
Mairon wandered aimlessly through his chambers, the sense of purpose he usually adhered  to a distant, uncatchable thought. Finally, he entered his bedchamber, his boudoir extending beyond it. A silk curtain separated his bedchamber from his boudoir. 

Wearily, Mairon made his way to the large alcove where his clothes were kept. He reached for a pale red silk robe, but stopped before he unhooked it.

He pulled the folds of Melkor's voluminous robe around him, and turned towards his bed. The silk curtain hiding the next chamber from view swished aside suddenly, and Mairon gasped aloud.

Deoridon emerged from the wispy hanging silk, standing cruel and tall in the dying light. 

"Greetings." he said, satisfaction blooming in his eyes at the look of abject terror in Mairon's blanched face.

 

     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will get rather hard for Mairon, beginning now.
> 
>  
> 
> As always, I ask for feedback on my work, which will always be appreciated.


	4. Helpless Tears

 Mairon turned, a frantic ploy to leave his bedchamber. Deoridon overtook him in two strides, grasping his arm and wrenching him back, flinging him down onto the bed. A wail fell from Mairon's lips as Deoridon clambered atop him. Deoridon's hand settled into the curve of Mairon's trim waist, through the thick folds of black cloth that covered it.   
  
  
"I was too lenient with you," Deoridon mused. "You are still able to walk."

The redness of mortification spread high on Mairon's face, defining the speckles that each held numerous places across Mairon's cheekbones and patrician nose.  
  
  
"I was surveying my new chambers, it is indeed surprising to find you here, I assumed you would seek out accommodation among the thralls." Deoridon continued.  Mairon's temper flared high, the last vestiges of a guttering fire.   
  
  
"I am still lieutenant!" Mairon remanded.  
  
  
  
"A position you will occupy for not much longer." Deoridon retorted.  
  
  
  
"My Lord shall not cast me aside!" Mairon said to spite Deoridon, the words spoken with more conviction than he truly had, his doubts screaming out in protest.   
  
  
  
"My Lord keeps you as his whore," Deoridon hissed, " And whores are easily found, if my Lord craves pleasure, anyone is his to take." 

Anyone, anyone...no, it was not so, Mairon thought. He remembered his days in Valinor, and the bitterness that existed between his Lord and Varda, the resentment of a jilted suitor.  
  
Mairon had come to Melkor willingly, he had not been taken, but had approached, to offer first a precious gift before it could be demanded, one he did not yet know if his Lord had found pleasing. 

But Deoridon did not share his thoughts. His fingers dug painfully into Mairon's waist, and his knee pressed into Mairon's lower belly. Terror held Mairon rigid, but when Deoridon's hand went to the first clasp of Melkor's robe, Mairon retaliated, clawing at Deoridon's face. He would not allow himself to be defiled anew in his Lord's robes.   
  
His resistance was swiftly punished, as Deoridon dug his knee between Mairon's thighs. Mairon screamed as the tender flesh was aggravated, and he cursed at Deoridon in the Black Tongue.

The words he uttered did not please Deoridon.  
  
  
"Such disrespect you show me, and I am your superior." Deoridon hissed. Mairon glared at him, hatred overshadowing fear for the moment. Deoridon leered in answer.

 

"I will require you to make amends for this insolence."

"You shall make amends to me, with your life." Mairon spat. He was struck across the face, the tear in his lip opening anew, a fissure that dribbled blood.

Deoridon's hand went to Mairon's hair, grasping a handful of it, pulling Mairon's head at an agonizing angle.  
  
  
"You will pay for your insolence with your mouth." Deoridon decreed. Fear resurfaced in Mairon's eyes, his jaw clenching, tightly, lips compressing, refusal evident in the trembling lines of his body. Deoridon groaned as Mairon quavered beneath him.

  
"As you wish." Deoridon said, working his lower body between Mairon's supple legs, his hand leaving Mairon's hair, gripping Mairon's wrists vicelike. Mairon bucked beneath hm, animalistic panic taking hold of him.

Deoridon moved with the heaves of Mairon's body, all the while rutting between Mairon's thighs, the hard outline of his cock rubbed by the smooth flesh that mercifully, was still covered by Melkor's black robe, a sheet of protection between Mairon and his attacker.  

Deoridon lapped at Mairon's pale throat, calling forth gasps of disgust. Choking on his own tears, Mairon could not call out.

 

  
His climax approaching, Deoridon shifted the laces of his trousers aside, and spilt his seed upon the dip of Mairon's belly. Mairon drew a shuddering breath, blood tainting the inhaled air.  
  
Deoridon's teeth suddenly sank into the flesh at the base of Mairon's throat, bringing forth another gasp, then a sob from Mairon. Blood welled from the bite, a seal in crimson ink that was not ink.  
  
Deoridon smoothed his trousers over his cock, looking appreciatively at the seed that beaded across Mairon's belly, displayed against the black cloth of the robe he wore.   
  
Still weakly thrashing, Mairon sobbed bitterly. This had not pained him as his earlier violation had before, yet it was worse. Deoridon rose from atop him.

"I have no need to tell my Lord of this, I will let him discover you himself."  
  
  
"My Lord knows..." Mairon whispered, the words flat and laden with pain.

"Then, I have yet but to wait for the decree of my glory." Deoridon replied. "Do not seek aid from any, or you will truly know what it means to be a whore."  
  
  
Mairon's eyes squeezed shut, and he nodded, a grudging show of understanding. The clink of glass echoed in the vaulted chamber, as Deoridon poured himself a goblet of wine from the carafe that that stood on a table by Mairon's bed. Mairon made no protest, his body shaking, fingers clutching spasmodically at the coverlets beneath him.  
  
Deoridon drank the wine slowly and luxuriously, with the content actions of one well sated. Once the wine was depleted, Deoridon left.  
  
The tatters of Mairon's control broke, and he wailed, rage and helplessness reaching a crescendo within him. Deoridon's seed had not touched his skin, yet it was splattered upon his Lord's robe, a travesty, that to Mairon, was above all.   
  
Weak and weeping in the wake of another attack, Mairon let a smothering darkness claim him, his diminishing spirit only a small flicker of flame in its midst. 

 

Melkor left his council chamber, a huge cavern with a marble table that stretched through it, fire burning in iron braziers along the walls. The wine had flowed freely, and plans had been fastidiously constructed. Melkor was in what, some daring few, namely Mairon, might term a  _good mood._ If only for a short time.

 Gothmog walked beside Melkor, their pairing a result of Melkor's unrefusable  invitation as the council adjourned. Melkor had not yet spoken to him, but the reason behind Melkor's forceful invitation was clearer to the balrog than was the crystal goblet Melkor still held.  
  
"Mairon has said you were not of the ones who laid hands upon him." Melkor spoke suddenly. Gothmog immediately processed the words and their heinous implications.

 

"The ones?" He queried aggressively.   
  
  
Melkor raised a dark brow, and Gothmog subsided into simmering malcontent.  
  


"Mairon said he was taken by three." Melkor growled low.   
  
  
The words roared in Gothmog's head, the heat of his body rising in a surge to meet his burning thoughts.  Three.

"They will be found, and dealt with," was his responding snarl, the dark promise delivered in the inferno of rage, without thought.  Melkor sized his arm, heedless of the heat that frothed within.

"You have no claim to vengeance." Melkor rumbled quietly, his words yet fraught with ominous intent.   
  
  
"I have a claim, as much as you, my Lord." Gothmog replied fiercely, crimson gaze locking with Melkor's. Melkor bared his teeth, the show of dominance of a wolf.  
  
  
"He is mine, not yours, and you would do well to remember such." 

   
Gothmog receded before Melkor's ire, as fire receded from water. Mairon was not his, and never would be, yet...yet, the thought of Mairon so cold and torn on the stone floor of Angband, while he was commanded into stagnation, stirred the embers of resentment, of vengeance most wrathful, they singed, only singed the impenetrable loyalty Gothmog held for his Lord.  
  
The embers died the next heartbeat, leaving a scorch of foul loss, of _acceptance_ on Gothmog's spirit. Conscious of Melkor's waiting hold on his arm, the balrog bowed deeply, yielding the one he never owned.   
  
  
"Forgive me, my Lord."

 

Melkor released his arm, the film of darkness rising from his face. He walked on, Gothmog trailing behind him, smoke curling from his form, and fading into the passing shadows.  
  
 They continued thusly in silence for the the better part of their sojourn. The original subject of their walk having been rendered forbidden by Gothmog's outburst, Melkor deigned to give orders of importance to Gothmog as they approached the officer's wing.  
  
Gothmog occupied a suite of rooms in the same vicinity as as Melkor and Mairon, the trifecta of Angband's leaders had found it convenient to take their rest near each other, in the event of an emergency, although Gothmog preferred to roost among his balrog brethren in the immense furnaces below.

 

Entering the wing, the balrog and his master were introduced to the sight of the door of Mairon's chambers standing ajar. Gothmog treated Melkor to a brief questioning gaze.   
  
  
"I left him in my chambers." Melkor hissed, striding to Mairon's opened door and disappearing through it. Gothmog followed, though he did not enter, wisely guessing that such would exhaust his share of liberties, so many having been taken by him already.   
  
Melkor plunged into his lieutenant's chambers, eyes roving over the neatly ordered furniture and decor. No sign of Mairon was shown among the now darkened rooms, until Melkor entered the bedchamber.

Mairon lay where unconsciousness had overtaken him yet again, swathed in Melkor's robe, telltale fluids crusted on it. Reaching the side of the bed, Melkor beheld the damning evidence, the rumpled condition of the coverlets, the look of despair that twisted Mairon's face, and the seed that lay on display across his robe.  


The crystal goblet Melkor held shattered in his grasp, crushed by his blackened hand, the wine it held dripping like blood onto the floor.

Rage made speech impotent, yet two words left Melkor's mouth, words not propelled by the anger heightening within Melkor.

 

"Mairon, Mairon." He murmured, unclapsing the soiled robe and lifting Mairon from it's clinging folds and into his arms. He left the chambers, clutching Mairon to his chest.  

  
Gothmog had the innate sense of self preservation to turn his gaze against the floor, as Melkor swept by him.  
  


"My Lord, what has happened?" the balrog called, unable to hold his tongue as well as his gaze.

Melkor issued a command, in lieu of answering.  
  


"Bring to me three werewolves."  
  


 Cold creeping low into his belly, a place where only heat should thrive, Gothmog quitted the officer's wing, and went in search of the kennels.  
  
  


Mairon stirred as Melkor crossed the threshold of his chambers. Head pillowed against Melkor's chest, Mairon was at ease, for the barest of moments. Then something soft was at his back, and a hand brushed against his brow.  
  
Mairon's eyes sprang open, and he found himself sitting upright in Melkor's bed. Casting a fearful look upwards, Mairon's eyes met his master's.

Wrapping his arms about his bare chest, Mairon held his chin up, a show of false bravado.

"My Lord." He said evenly.  
  
  
Something high in the left of Melkor's chest twisted at the words, at how very _normal_ Mairon sounded, although it rang false.

Mairon broke into tears the next moment, not the loud laments of before, but a weak, inaudible expulsion of grief, destroying the unnamed hope that had tentatively budded in Melkor's black heart.  
  
  
"Mairon." Melkor said once more, _helplessly._

The Dark Lord could only stare at his lieutenant, and rage inwardly at his impotency. He, Melkor, the rightful ruler of Arda, had not been able to keep _what was his_ from the hands of thieves.

They had stolen Mairon from him.

And they would pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has provided feedback. 
> 
> I'll still ask for more, and more feedback. It gives me incentive, and it is very much appreciated.


	5. Perilous Steps

Gothmog returned later, three werewolves leashed and following him, snarling, ravenous beasts, that growled their discontent til it echoed through the stone halls. He brought them to his Lord's doorstep, then retreated to his chambers, not daring to show his face to his Lord, yet not daring to leave, should his Lord have need of him.  
  
  
  
  
Mairon had fallen into repose, his tear stained face resting against the silken pillows of his Lord's bed. Melkor lingered beside his lieutenant, charred fingers skirting the distances between each of the many, tiny, speckles that lay spanned across Mairon's cheeks and nose.  
  
The speckles had always fascinated Melkor, though he would never admit to such. The majority of the Valar, the Maiar, and the Eldar were possessed of fair, flawless skin, and Mairon was no exception, but for the the speckles that scattered on his face, shoulders, torso and thighs.  
  
  
Oftentimes after their relations, Melkor would lie awake, idly contemplating the speckles across his lieutenant's body, as Mairon slumbered beside him, nude, bruises purpling his creamy skin, his flaming hair spread and falling over the pillows, tresses akin to a fall of magma.     
  
The memory irked Melkor, Mairon indeed lay nude upon his bed, but his skin was not milky, nor his hair glowing, not matching Melkor's customary memories of his lieutenant in the aftermath of a night abed with him.   
  
Letting a harsh exhale seep from his mouth, Melkor's eyes alighted on a garment that was scrupulously hung on one of the bedposts.  
  
It was a robe of rippling silk, the color of blood.  Mairon had left it thusly after being summoned to his lord's chambers just the night before.  Melkor vividly remembered how Mairon had unclasped the robe, and draped it over the bedpost, moments before Melkor's patience had broken, and he had seized Mairon and thrown him down upon the bed.  
  
Mairon had been due in the forges the next day, and had foregone the robe, preferring to work the forges in his undertunic and leather trousers.

Letting himself topple into one of the high backed iron chairs positioned about the chamber, Melkor propped his darkly booted foot upon the adjacent desk, brooding unrestrained. 

Though he was loath to admit it, Mairon's absence from the command chain jeopardized the integrity of his armies and kingdom. His lieutenant's presence must be felt. If so, Mairon's attackers must be found, since what could hasten a recovery more, the Dark Lord mused, then Mairon watching his attackers subjected to a grisly death?  
  
  
Melkor's private dining hall lay beyond his bedchamber, and Melkor cast a glance through thr door that led to the hall, seeing that a repast had been set for him at the long table.  
  
  
Melkor did not care to often partake of physical sustenance, but at certain times, he fancied the fare of Angband, meats, from animals hunted, and cheeses from the milk the wargs and werewolves gave. A stock of wheat, and vineyard were cultivated somewhere in or around the stone vaults of Angband, kept alive and growing by some sorcery, for Mairon fancied bread and wine.   
  
Standing, Melkor entered the hall and sat at the head of the table, and ate idly, not tasting much, merely biding time til Mairon awoke.

  
Mairon awoke only a short time later, dreams, recollections, grappling with him, then sending him fleeing into the present. Rising, Mairon peered into the dining hall, seeing only his Lord's back.

 Taking his robe from the bedpost where it hung, Mairon donned it, feeling the silk wrap like a bandage around his bruised body.  
  
  
The smooth rustle of silk and the clink of clasps being slotted together heralded Mairon's wakeful presence to Melkor.

"Mairon, come here." He commanded, turning to survey his lieutenant, dark eyes seeing what was hidden by Mairon's crimson robe.

Mairon came haltingly, thick but now lusterless hair falling over his slender shoulders, his eyes fastened upon his bare feet, hands clasped in the folds of his robe.  
  
  
A scowl warped Melkor's features, anger slotting into his gaze.  
  
Mairon never approached him in a manner such as this. Mairon would come confidently, impudently, it could be said, hips swinging in a saucy, nonchalant gait, glowing hair shining like a veil of fire around him. This muted, timid, extinguished being who came to him now, he did not know.

Mairon stood before Melkor, his mannerisms not those of Melkor's lieutenant, but of a broken prisoner, fearfully expecting.

Extending a charred hand, Melkor lifted up Mairon's face, sweeping Mairon's hair over one shoulder with the other of his burnt hands. With that action, the side of Mairon's pale neck was bared, exposing the bite that soiled his neck, a red, profane injury.

A snarl manifested in Melkor's throat, Mairon shrunk back at the sound, believing the expression of rage had been of his doing. Without thought, Melkor's hand closed tight in Mairon's hair, preventing Mairon from drawing away. 

Mairon had been marked.

Melkor had marked Mairon many a time, his sharp teeth cutting into Mairon's skin, blood running from the damaged flesh. Mairon would take care to conceal the marks bestowed upon him with high, ornate collars, and ropes of jewels, while Melkor relished what secrets lay beneath those adornments.   
  
But that any other, than he, Melkor, would dare to touch, to mark his lieutenant's fair skin, was an abomination.  
  
A cry fell from Mairon's lips, at the hand that twisted his tresses, pain flaring high, though the cry was something more akin to a sob then a release of pain. 

  
"My Lord." Mairon entreated, eyes wide in fear, his hands moving upward to clutch at his master's wrist.  
  
The sheen of rage withdrew from Melkor's face, as Mairon's slim fingers wound about his blackened hand.

"My Lord..." Mairon said again, attempting to kneel in a bid to pacify Melkor's perceived anger, despite the pain that flared yet higher in his scalp from the greater pull upon his hair.

 

 "Please, I did not mean to cause offense, my Lord, forgive me, please..." Mairon begged.

"Silence." Melkor ordered, and Mairon's entreaties ceased, his eyes falling to the floor.  
  
  
"Look at me!" Melkor snarled, furious at Mairon's timidity. Mairon hunched as though physically struck, and he lifted his gaze to Melkor's. Melkor's hand released Mairon's hair, his fingers brushing against the bite. 

  
"Who did this?"

   
"One of the three, my Lord." Mairon whispered.  


"Names, Mairon, names." Melkor hissed.  


"I do not know who two were," Mairon said. "But the third..." A heavy knock upon the great doors of Melkor's chamber ruptured Mairon's words.  
  
  
"My Lord," Gothmog said, the husky, thick as smoke timber of his voice permeating the iron door. "Someone has come seeking an audience with Lieutenant Mairon."  
  
  
Mairon's hands grasped convulsively at his robe, a desperate light in his eyes. Melkor's dark gaze tracked his every move.

  
"I will see to them." Melkor declared in answer to Gothmog. "Now, enter."   
  
  
Gothmog opened the heavy doors and came into Melkor's chambers, eyes fastening upon Mairon as he entered the dining hall, who stood pitifully bowed at Melkor's side.   
  
  
"You will guard him." Melkor said, rising from his seat.  

  
"Yes, my Lord." Gothmog replied instantly, though his response was too immediate for Melkor's taste.   
  
"Should anything untoward be committed against him," Melkor begin warningly, but Gothmog did not need to be warned, acutely aware of the perilous ground on which he stood.   
  
  
"Understood, my Lord." Gothmog said hurriedly, in way of assurance.  
  
  
  
  
Melkor favored him with a single, piercing, dark glare, then swept by him and out the doors, the werewolves baying loudly at his departure.

 

  
Gothmog's eyes immediately turned to Mairon, Mairon did not met his gaze, but only pulled the folds of his robe closer about himself, and quit the dining hall, walking into Melkor's bedchamber, disappearing into it's shadows. 

  
The being waiting outside the officers wing was tall, his eyes gleaming in their sockets like live coals. Melkor recognized him, Deoridon, whom he has once considered for position of his lieutenant.  
   
  
But Deoridon's skills paled in comparison to Mairon's and no subtle, almost nonexistent need flourished in Melkor towards Deoridon, as it did with Mairon. And so Mairon was named Lieutenant, a choice that seemed proscribed in fate.    


Deoridon had faded into obscurity since then, and Melkor had paid him no mind. Deoridon bowed when Melkor approached, perfectly subservient.  
  
  
"What business do you have with the Lieutenant?" Melkor demanded brusquely.

 

Deoridon straightened.

"I was discussing certain subjects with with Lord Mairon earlier, and there were plans I forgot to bring to his attention." Deoridon said, his manner respectful and demure, although something lurked beneath the fanciful words and tone, which Melkor could not yet lay a finger upon.   


"He cannot be bothered now, do not be as careless as to forget again." Melkor said threateningly. Deoridon bowed again.  
  
  
  
"Yes, my Lord."

"My lieutenant will be absent for some time." Melkor confided, a thought forming in his mind.Mairon would require time to recuperate, and in the while, his duties needed attending to.  
  
"I will require someone to see to his duties. You are a suitable candidate, but do not consider this a promotion, you shall be acting as a steward, and will relinquish your position upon my lieutenant's return."   
  
  
Deoridon laid a hand upon his chest and bowed low a third time, a strange light of triumph suffusing his face.

"My Lord, it would be my honor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I ask for feedback on my work, it keeps me happy and helps me write faster. And I'll be very grateful for it.


	6. Deep Dark

Mairon had laid upon the bed and surrendered to sleep, before Gothmog dared to venture into the bedchamber after him. The sight of Mairon laying pale and still upon the coverlets was an unsettling sight. Mairon looked so _small._  
  
  
  
Smaller than his usual wont.

 

Mairon had never been as tall or as muscular as Melkor or Gothmog in humanoid form, Melkor had remarked once that greatness could be encompassed within small things. Though Melkor had found this amusing, Mairon had not, as he only came nigh to Melkor's shoulder in heeled boots.

His own amusement waxing at the remembrance, Gothmog lifted a coverlet and draped it over Mairon, an effort to add to his seemingly dwindling mass.  
  
When Gothmog had first beheld Mairon, he believed, and still did, that there could be no being fairer, even when countered with his Lord's dark beauty. Mairon was a spirit of fire, his inner core manifesting in the radiance of his skin and vibrant glow of his hair, his eyes searing, as molten gold.  
  
Existing as a spirit of fire himself, Gothmog ached to add Mairon's fire to his own. But it could never be, his Lord had claimed Mairon, a black lantern encasing and holding captive a luminous flame.  
  
Under Melkor's rule, Mairon had been set free as his servant, a unique paradox, no longer constrained by the Valar, he had grown fell and cruel, a flaming sword in Melkor's right hand, a treasured tool, and even more cherished possession. 

   
  
Gothmog was not lackwit, the sensations that stirred within him at every glimpse of Mairon, though not sensations of the flesh as Gothmog had first thought them to be, were the same that he could deduce in Melkor's eyes when Melkor looked upon Mairon with favor in Gothmog's presence.  
  
The sensations had a name, a place.

But the name was all but forbidden, and there was no place for them in the service of Melkor.  
  
  
Gothmog leaned upon the wall next to the great bed, his gaze locked upon Mairon's form.

 

Melkor found his officers thus when he returned to his chambers, one atop his bed, the other staring down at the sleeping figure in strange adoration.

  
"Leave." Melkor ordered, and Gothmog went, a single crimson look cast warily over his shoulder.

When the sound of the great doors of his chambers closing announced Gothmog's true departure, Melkor came to his bed and laid upon beside Mairon. Placing a charred hand on Mairon's waist, Melkor drew Mairon into the curve that stretched between his torso and hip.  
  
With the weight of his lieutenant cradled against him, Melkor allowed himself to sink into the grasping mattress. Sleep was a thing Melkor required rarely, though sometimes he would indulge in physical rest as with food.  
  
Mairon slept on, oblivious to the quasi embrace of his master. Melkor's blackened hand stretched over Mairon's taut belly, feeling it swell and rise with each of Mairon's breaths.  
  
Heat still gleamed beneath Mairon's paling skin, warming the inside of Melkor's hand. Melkor kneaded Mairon's belly in an absent motion, causing Mairon to mumble inaudibly. and move shiftily, the mounds of his rear dipping into the hollow between Melkor's hips.  
  
The pressure between his hips and the warmth against his hand coerced a greater warmth to spike in the space betwixt Melkor's thighs.       
  
  
If this had been any other time, Melkor would assuage his burgeoning arousal by trapping Mairon beneath him, or on his knees before him, and make good use of his mouth or body. But, it could not happen now, though Mairon would not refuse Melkor if he wished to have him, it would not be a beneficial act. 

   
One could not forge a sword in a half cooled furnace, or wield a half forged sword. Mairon was in no state for the rigors of physical pleasure, of the kind Melkor favored.  
  
Though Melkor would give no regard for what state any person was in, taking what he wanted despite all else, it was then strange that Melkor would grant Mairon this respite. The implications of this were not something Melkor cared to remunerate on, knowing they would open a void he had yet to explore.   
  
  
Closing his eyes, Melkor allowed sleep his presence in its realm.

Mairon awoke a passage of time later, finding himself tucked into the curve of Melkor's body, his Lord's arm a black chain about his waist. Sitting upright, Mairon eased himself ever so slowly out of his Lord's grasp, but Melkor could not be so easily eluded.  
  
He woke, rising up like an oncoming shadow. 

Mairon moved to the edge of the bed, quickly slipping off of it, and distancing himself from it.  
  


"Mairon," Melkor rumbled, his brow inverting, "Where are you going?"  
  
  
"My Lord, I have my duties to attend to.." Mairon replied. Melkor's hand waved in a dismissive gesture.  
  
  


"You do not have any duties at the present."  
  


"My Lord?" Mairon began, an ill feeling rising from his belly to his throat.  
  
  
"There is one called Deoridon, that I have given your duties to."

Mairon blanched, cold rippling through his body, all remaining color leaving his face. Deoridon... _Deoridon..._ his Lord had finally cast him aside, and given Deoridon his place, as Deoridon had said.  
  
Despair sprung high in Mairon, choking him, its bitter taste seasoned with the sour, sour tang of jealously, a vile mixture. It was outrageous, unthinkable, to picture another sitting by his Lord, acting as his Lieutenant, being privy to his councils, and being brought into his bed.

A growl, a snarl, a scream of terrible loss rose onto Mairon's tongue, anger frothing behind it. Mairon was the only being in Arda who could boast a claim upon Melkor, however frail.   
  
  
Melkor had discovered him in Aule's house, taught him, shown him true greatness. Mairon had pledged allegiance to him, followed him, accepted him, he  _lov..._ no, no, he refused to say, to even  _think_ the word, the damning word, though yet again, he was the only in Arda who could use it in reference to Melkor.

Yet, yet, Melkor was cleaving him asunder, as if naught had occurred between them. But, Mairon had known the temperament of his Lord, though Mairon has renounced all for Melkor, Melkor would not do so for him.

  
Tears bled from his eyes, and swam in his throat, it had all been his _choice, his fault._  
  
Gathering the tattered remains of his will about himself, letting not one tear fall, Mairon bowed flawlessly.  
  
  
"My Lord." He said, the words an act of worship. He would remain loyal, despite all. He now had nothing else.

He turned then, and ran, dashing out of Melkor's chambers and into his own. Wrenching on a pair of trousers and boots, Mairon absconded his chambers as soon as the laces were knotted. Deoridon would come to claim his chambers, and Mairon did not wish to be present at that time.

He left the officers wing, fleeing down the halls, not knowing to wither he was headed.

 

Melkor left his chambers on his lieutenant's heels, to search for him, bemused, but not yet angry. Melkor knew Mairon would not like that another was in his place, even temporarily, given Mairon's propensity to control, but Mairon's reaction had been unprecedented. Mairon had ran as a beast from the spears of hunters, or a thrall from a whip.  
  
What was _wrong_ with his lieutenant?

Melkor prodded the bond between them, to be met with a blank, apathetic wall, across which sorrow flickered. Growling, Melkor strode forward, if it were any other than Mairon, Melkor would have had them flogged for such perplexing behavior.

But the problem lay not in Mairon, but in the bruises that flourished between his legs and across his body. The flogging, Melkor would reserve for his Lieutenant's attackers.

  
Spurred by fear, Mairon hastened to the forges, tears blurring his eyes, Mairon fumbled to open the heavy doors. When they swung inward, he stumbled through them, but was not enveloped in the smooth darkness of an unlit forge as he had expected. He was swathed in a bright, fiery, glow, his senses rendered null by grief and fear, Mairon had not come to his forge, but to the furnaces where the balrogs kept company.  
  
They turned to look at him, these smoky creatures of fire and brimstone. They parted before him, knowing his authority, and deferring to it.

Mairon began to laugh hysterically, a shrieking cackle. They still thought him to be their lieutenant. 

The balrogs stared uncomprehendingly at him, and one came forward from their midst. Gothmog. The balrog's eyes swept over the hysterical Maia standing in the lofty doorway, Mairon was clearly unwell.

Mairon did not laugh, even smile unless it be in the throes of battle, or in some cruel manipulation. Gothmog reached outward, and took Mairon by the wrist, pulling Mairon into the throng of balrogs. They stared as Gothmog led Mairon through their midst, but made no comment.   
  
  
Mairon's laughter turned to sobs in a smooth transition. Gothmog took Mairon clumsily against his side, expecting resistance, but none was forthcoming, Mairon allowed himself to be folded into Gothmog's side, letting his tears fall onto Gothmog's exposed skin, and there sizzle and evaporate.  
  
  
Gothmog held Mairon against him, clutching the slender, forbidden form. He took Mairon to the back of the huge furnace, where the great fire burned, and set Mairon upon a stone bench in front of it.   
  


Mairon's skin was cold, worryingly so for a spirit of fire, and Gothmog thought to warm it by placing Mairon in the forefront of a source of heat. Mairon still sobbed, tears falling from his now nearly colorless eyes. 

  
Gothmog brushed the back of his hand against Mairon's face, drying the tears that made their path downwards.  Mairon started at the touch, throwing his gaze up wildly. Gothmog met his gaze, his hand sinking lower, fingers brushing Mairon's lips.

 

Mairon turned his head away, and Gothmog withdrew his hand.

 

"You should be with our Lord." Gothmog said, to cover his blunder. A raspy laugh emanated from Mairon's throat. 

 

"He does not want me." Mairon declared hollowly.  


Gothmog's brows drew together in question.  
  
  
"Our Lord has deemed me unfit to serve him," Mairon elaborated. "He has elected to place another in my stead."  Mairon cast another glance upward at Gothmog. "You should become acquainted with your new lieutenant,  _Captain._ " Mairon spat.  
  
  
Something in Gothmog's chest twisted, an unbidden and unwelcome feeling.  
  
  
"Who is the one who has been put in your place?" The balrog questioned.  


The tears flowed unchecked down Mairon's face, inking his reply in sorrow and salt.  
  
  
"Deoridon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I ask for feedback, I love it, and it is always appreciated. So thanks to everyone who has given feedback.


	7. Sleepless Night

Mairon's tears ceased, by and by, the droplets fading from his ashen face. The balrogs muttered and pulsated behind him, but Mairon gave them no mind, sitting with his back to them, staring into the fire that roared before him, face devoid of any emotion.  
  
Memories flitted through his mind, and voices came too, fragments of some conversation, from long, long, ago, of a meeting in a fairer place.

_"Who are you, little one?"_  
  
  
_"Mairon, of my Lord Aule's household."_

 _"Aule. A smith you are then, I presume. What do you labor upon?"_  
  
  
_"It does not concern you."_

_"I will decide what concerns me."_

_"Then you may also decide to leave."_  
  
  
_"I do not wish too."_

_"I wish you to."_

_"I care not for what others wish."_

_A twist of pale lips...a flash of irritation in golden eyes...a dark chuckle. The beginning of something...which was now ended._

Mairon stood, and Gothmog reached forward a constraining hand. Mairon brushed it aside.

"Leave me be." came his sharp refutation. Gothmog retracted his hand, and Mairon passed by him, through the masses of balrogs that were spanned between him and the doors, and left, disappearing into the shadows of the halls in a whisper of silk.  
  
  
Gothmog left soon after Mairon, hastening back to the officers wing, in search of Melkor.

Hurrying through the halls, Mairon flung himself back against the walls as a figure hurled itself at him from one of the side passages. Expecting Deoridon, or one of his unknown attackers, surprise manifested  when he saw it was not so.  
  
A werewolf stood glowering at him, mouth slavering in hunger. It had wandered from its post at Melkor's doors, and had come upon Mairon as it traversed the halls. Mairon extended a hand to it, and the beast came to him, mad eyes blown wide in hope of a reward.

 Mairon's hand descended onto it's pelt, half stroking, half ripping it's matted fur. A growl ran up the beast's throat, a horrible crooning note. Mairon's fingers delved behind it's pointed ears, nails scratching into its skin. In Valinor, Mairon would sometimes romp in secret with Orome's hounds, when Orome would visit Yavanna, if she happened to be residing at Aule's forges.

_A hand, tousling the fur across a wiggling belly, a pleased growl, and a joyous bark, a tail, flapping wildly...a stumble into green turf as some happy body dashed underfoot...bundles of live fur covering him...two voices in the distance, a mad scramble to tuck blazing hair and leather aprons back into order..._

 Mairon's hand slipped from the thick fur at the memory, and he moved away, continuing down the hall. In Angband, there were no true hounds, only wargs, werewolves, and countless foul creatures of his Lord's design.

The werewolf followed him, and Mairon allowed it, taking a pathetic comfort in the beast that paced behind him, a mockery of a scenario so long ago. 

Together they walked, beast and Maia, through the halls and numerous passages, and chambers, down into deep and forgotten rooms. Therein Mairon went, where only the lowest prisoners and thralls were kept, and there collapsed,  the last color and heat ebbing from his body with every labored breath, his abused Fea and body slowly relinquishing their hold upon each other, each no longer possessing the strength they should contain, due to the wounds they both sported.

Should they give up their tenuous hold, his Fea would wander formless, unable to return to the body through which it had been hurt, while his body itself would turn akin to stone.

The werewolf lay by Mairon, a howl slithering from its throat and rending the air. Mairon heard it not, beyond hearing, sight and touch, for the present. The werewolf held vigil by his side, either by some before issued command, or an act contrived of its own self, though to Mairon, it mattered naught.  

Gothmog encountered Melkor in the halls above the furnaces, Melkor looked distinctly displeased, and Gothmog approached him in caution. Melkor appeared more incensed than pacified by Gothmog's caution.   
  
  
"Where is Mairon?" Melkor demanded without pretense.

"I do not know, my Lord." Gothmog replied. "He came to the furnaces, then left shortly after."  
  
  
"And you did not ascertain to where he went?" Melkor hissed.

 

"No, my Lord." Gothmog said.

"How odd, since you seem to be invested in my lieutenant's welfare as of late." Melkor sneered.

   
Gothmog stepped back, suspicious of some outburst on his Lord's part. But Melkor made no movement against him.

 

"Come, you will search for him with me." Melkor ordered.

"Yes, my Lord." Gothmog conceded, falling into step besides Melkor. Gleaning courage upon his Lord's perceived leniency, Gothmog asked the question that was buring upon his mind.

"My Lord, who is the one who has been given Lieutenant Mairon's position?"

 

Melkor shot a sharp look at Gothmog, dark brows closing in above his eyes.

"The lieutenant said you had given his place to another." Gothmog pressed. 

  
"I did no such thing." Melkor scowled, anger blooming rapidly. "My lieutenant attributes false deeds to me, I should have him whipped for it."

This statement was the only empty threat Gothmog had known his Lord to give. The Vala had never struck Mairon in reprimand, and likely would never do so, or allow another to.

Doubtless, he punished Mairon's transgressions, if there were even any, in other ways, but his lack of physical discipline was another reason Mairon was envied throughout Melkor's domain.

  
"Then whom is the Deoridon the lieutenant speaks of?" Gothmog quickly questioned.  
  
  
"He is a temporary fixture." Melkor said shortly, and Gothmog knew to stay his tongue, though questions still remained upon it. If another was not to be put in Maron's place, why was Mairon so distraught?

Not daring to voice his thoughts, Gothmog pondered them silently.

Melkor and Gothmog perused the halls at length, searching for their wayward lieutenant. Time stretched on, and Mairon was not found, and Melkor's ire had risen to dreadful heights.

 

Melkor's anger shook the passages as he strode through, now making his way to his throne room. As they entered, Gothmog's eyes caught upon the unfamiliar figure that stood by Mairon's throne.  This figure bowed low to Melkor when the Vala ascended to his throne.

 

Melkor acknowledged the figure with a barely perceptible tilt of his chin, and the being straightened. Gothmog listened as Melkor addressed the figure. 

"Arrange a party to locate Lieutenant Mairon."

"Yes, my Lord." the being replied, and descended from the dais where the thrones stood, leaving the room. Gothmg's crimson eyes followed him, assessing him.  This being then, must be Deoridon. He did not possess Mairon's comely looks, although, he was indeed striking. Dark haired, tall, grey skinned, eyes the color of smelted ore.

  
Though striking, his attributes appealed not to Gothmog in the least. Gothmog went to his perch between the pillars of the throne room, Melkor sprawled out upon his throne, presenting an appearance of luxurious indifference, though it was the extreme opposite.

 

When Mairon woke, the opening of his eyes was as a painful birth. A broken cry left his mouth, his slim hands, now cold as if they were carved of ice, grasping the jagged floor under him as a spasm racked his form, the shake of bitter cold.

Warm breath stirred his hair suddenly, gusting into his ear. Mairon cast himself against heated air, colliding into the werewolves side. His arms went around it, bringing it to the floor on its side, with the dregs of his strength. Dignity forgotten, Mairon crushed himself along the werewolves side, reaping the heat that emanated from its form. 

Mairon allowed the warmth to to bear him back into oblivion, though not true oblivion, memory followed him, taking him to a faraway place, where it was not dark and filthy, but light and clean, where gulls called from above, and leaves fluttered overhead...

 _  
  
...A warm furred body against his side, a rough, but gentle tonuge tickling his face...sweet scents wafting into his nose, then a shadow, _ _obscuring the light that bathed him, and a clear and rich laugh..."Look Yavanna, at what I find here..." a hand, descending, well formed and calloused, to help him rise..._

...A hand that grasped his hair, hauling him upward to his feet, a face contorting into a sneer. Mairon's eyes opened, eyelids raised by budding panic. It was not Orome who held him so cruelly, but someone far more repugnant.

Deoridon.

Deoridon looked at Mairon, who hung from Deoridon's grip upon his hair. The werewolf growled a blossoming objection. Deoridon kicked out, boot connecting with it's side, sending it back, crooning in hurt.

Deoridon's gaze locked with Mairon's.

"You do not need to lay with such a whelp, I am willing to provide for your desires." Deoridon remarked. Madness coursed across Mairon's face, dragging a behind it a crazed smile.

"Before me, you were only acquainted with the pleasures beasts could give you." Mairon said, his voice lilting and mocking, not a trace of fear at that moment in it.   
  
  
Deoridon's hand yanked furiously upon Mairon's hair.

"You should keep your mouth closed, save for when you place it around a cock, it is truly good for nothing else." Deoridon sneered.

"You have no true idea of what my mouth is capable of." Mairon retorted, currently in the throes of a vivid fantasy, one which predominately featured him ripping Deoridon's throat asunder with naught but his teeth. 

 

Deoridon released Mairon's hair, dropping Mairon upon the mercies of the rocky ground. The werewolf came forward, nuzzling into Mairon's hair, and baring its fangs at Deoridon.  
  
Deoridon withdrew his curved blade from his belt, and in one swift motion, drove it into the back of the werewolf's neck.

Mairon's eyes dilated as the werewolf slumped beside him upon the ground, blood creating a dark collar about its throat. Crouching beside Mairon, Deoridon wiped his blade clean upon Mairon's robe. Mairon kicked out at him, anger kindling in his gaze.

  
Deoridon struck him across the face with the hilt of his knife, opening a gash along the the ridge of Mairon's nose.

"My Lord ordered me to locate you, but I now think you should never be found." Deoridon mused, replacing his knife in his belt.

"You presume to know better than my Lord?" Mairon hissed, blood dripping down his face.   
  
  
"My Lord does not need you anymore, I will only help him to realize such." Deoridon said.

 

"He will not accept your failure to locate me." Mairon rebuttaled.

  
"The failure will not be mine, but yours." Deoridon said, rising to his feet. Mairon's eyes tracked him, hate gleaming on their surface.

 

"I must not be absent from my Lord for too long." Deoridon simpered. "You will wait here until my convenience suits." 

"I care not for your convenience." Mairon spat.

 

"A pity." Deoridon commented, the toe of his boot connecting with Mairon's head, the savage kick propelling Mairon into blackness.  
  
  
As his senses fled, Mairon's own name echoed within his head, though be it uttered by his Lord, or by the far off specter of a more genteel lord, Mairon could not tell. 

 

His name was called again, but now he did not hear, and it was called fruitlessly.   
  
  
_"Mairon, Mairon, Mairon..."_

"Mairon."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I request feedback, as I always do, and a big thanks to all who have left feedback.


	8. Desperate Run

Melkor's jaw clenched, teeth set against each other in his mouth. Again he called to Mairon through their bond, again, no answer was forthcoming. Accustomed to his lieutenant's prompt responses, Melkor raged against the blank wall that kept him from Mairon's mind.  
  
  
  
Usually, Mairon would open his mind upon feeling the slightest push against it by his Lord, now, Mairon was closed to him, and Melkor furiously endured the throttled connection.

Mairon should be available to him, always. Though, it had not always been so.

 

Melkor remembered with unwelcome Almaren, where had first encountered Mairon. He had taken the habit of frequenting Aule's forges, in his spare hours, when he sought rest from the labor of the building of Utumno.   
  
  
He had entered the forges, noting that hardly any of Aule's Maia were present...save one.

 

 _Melkor had seen the flaming hair first, and thought it to be another of the fires that burned in the forges._  
  
_As he stepped forward, Melkor's foot came down upon a pile of unconnected chain links that lay upon the floor, sending them skittering in all directions._

_Their noise was heard by ears other than his, and the flames turned, revealing a face within them, golden eyes shone out from pale skin, lips quirking upwards, a half of a smile...  
_

_Then brows drew together, the smile fading when the gold eyes fastened upon Melkor.  
_

 

_Melkor approached, bringing himself closer to the slender figure.  
_

_The figure's arms crossed over their chest, an expression of dubiety spreading across their face._  
  
  
_A forming smirk played at Melkor's lips, the Vala idly wondered what this being's reaction might be when he revealed his name. Most reacted to him in consternation, the Valar reacted to his comings in ill concealed perplexity and irritation, the Maiar would regard him in fear, or awe._  
 

_"I am Melkor." the Vala of that name declared, dark eyes keenly examining the being's face.  
_

  
  
_The being's hands moved to their hips, lips shifting into a surprisingly unimpressed mien._  
  
_"I know of you by repute." they informed Melkor, their voice as smooth and as sweet as the honey Irmo and Vana'a bees gave, though it carried more than a hint of spice, a strength like iron._

_Melkor's brows raised, this being, this Maia, for such he, yes, he must be, reacted not as Melkor had grown accustomed to, instead, impudently asserting his knowledge of Melkor's identity._

_Suddenly, irrecoverably, Melkor was intrigued by the little flame haired Maia._  
_  
"Who are you, little one?" Melkor questioned._

  
_"Mairon, of my Lord Aule's household." Mairon replied, hips swinging as he turned his back to Melkor, hefting a hammer into his slender hand..._

Melkor growled, shaking the memory hence. Deoridon entered the throne room at that moment, and Melkor waved him forward, seeing that Deoridon had come alone.

"Where is the lieutenant?" Melkor demanded wrathfully.

 

Deoridon approached steadily, and bowed at the foot of the throne.  
  
  
"I indeed located the lieutenant, my Lord, but he ran when I spoke of your commands regarding him."  
  
  
  
Melkor's wrath twisted his face, yet Deoridon spoke again.

 

"He appeared to not wish to face you." Deoridon relayed smoothly.  Melkor's eyes narrowed, and he stood, his obsidian armor now revealed by the lack of his robes, gleaming in the light of the torches.

"Seek him out and bring him to me!" Melkor thundered.

 

A sliver of alarm unfurled in Deoridon's eyes, but it took its leave as quickly as it had come, and Melkor observed it not. Deoridon gave his customary bow, and then turned, leaving the throne room yet again. 

 

Melkor sank back down upon his throne, while out, beyond the pillars, Gothmog's ruby eyes trailed Deoridon as he quitted the room.

 

When the hem of Deoridon's cloak disappeared unto the shadowy halls, Gothmog threw his gaze upon Melkor, but then refrained from speaking the words he had intended to give freedom to. 

 

His Lord was in no good disposition, and Gothmog had no desire to to be subject to his anger.

 

A thread of cold wound in low in Gothmog's belly, a feeling that in a different place, could be named apprehension. Should Mairon be found, Melkor's rage would fall on him, be he injured or no. Though harsh punishment was commonplace within Angband, Gothmog bore no will to see it bestowed upon Mairon.

  
As if knowing upon whom Gothmog's thoughts concerned, Melkor stood  anew.

"Gothmog, come." he said, brokering no objection, striding from the dais. Gothmog came, treading in the wake of his Lord's steps, out of the throne room. Melkor allowed Gothmog to walk at his side upon gaining the privacy of the halls.

"Tell me," Melkor began, his voice deceptively calm, "Do you have knowledge of who would so desire my lieutenant that they would be driven to commit the act done unto him?"

Gothmog knew his answer must be immediate, and as such he answered.

  
"My Lord, the lieutenant is of great beauty, many doubtless desire him."

 

"Including you." Melkor rasped. 

"Yes, my Lord." Gothmog replied, knowing candor to be his best defense against such a statement. Melkor's gaze remained still expectant, even at the balrog's admission.

  
  
 "Orcs would not do this." Gothmog added hastily.

 

"Nay." Melkor agreed, expression fading into one of contemplation. "They would not dare touch one so above their station."

 

Elves, would sometimes be given to the orcs for sport or pleasure, and when the orcs had used them to their fill, they would throw their broken bodies to the furnaces. So though it was possible the orcs had accrued a taste for fair beings, they had not the capability to defile a Maia. 

 

The ones who held the ability to do as such, were other Maia, Valar, or beings of equal power.   
  
  
  
"Question the balrogs." Melkor commanded. Gothmog was swift to rise in his defense of his forces.

  
"My Lord, they did not..."

 

"Question them even so." Melkor snarled.

 

"Yes, my Lord."  Gothmog answered by rote.  
  
  


  
  
Deoridon skimmed through the halls, then down, down, to where Mairon was sequestered. Time was urgent, Mairon must be removed immediately.  
  
  


 

  
The color of memory seeped into the blackness that held Mairon hostage, and once more, he walked upon the soil of another place...  
  
  
  
  
_Two figures flanking him, another walking at his side, coming only to his waist, its tail waving happily...then an apology..."I am sorry, I meant no disrespect..."  
_

 

_"And none has been taken, my hounds are amicable to you."_

  
_A soft breath of relief, a look shared above his head._

_"Yavanna tells me that Aule considers you to be the greatest of his smiths."  
_

 

_The color red now, blooming atop his cheeks._

_"My Lord, I..."_

 

_"I would have a boon of the smith Aule so favors, I have a mind to have collars for my hounds, would you be willing to construct aught for me?"  
_

 

_Now, an expression of awe._

  
  
_"My Lord Orome, I would be honored..."_

 

 Mairon's hand moved despite despite his comatose state, a bid to grasp the fur of a phantom hound, but his hand plunged instead into a pelt slick with blood.

In unease, Mairon shifted into painful waking. Cold seized him as his eyes opened, gasping as he was assailed by the cold, Mairon pressed against the werewolf's lifeless body, seeking the last of its fading heat. 

Mairon possessed a multitude of reasons to hate Deoridon, and not least were the bruises and tender ripped skin his body bore, but Deoridon's needless slaughter of the werewolf unveiled another facet of Mairon's hatred.

 Concealed, though still deep within Mairon, existed the remnants of affection towards beasts, a glimmering scourge he retained from a life in a fairer land.  
  
  


Deoridon entered the rocky cell, looking to Mairon, who now, was only identifiable by the stain of his crimson robe, trademarks of his hair and eyes diluted and greying.   
  


Mairon's colorless eyes flitted upward to rest on Deoridon's face, fear budding in them. Deoridon went to him, yanking Mairon to his feet by the aid of a grasp upon his shoulder.  
  
"You are to leave here." Deoridon hissed. Mairon struggled feebly, Deoridon's touch a thing abhorrent to him.  
  


"You are daft." Mairon gasped out. "My place is here."  


"As your superior, your place is where I so deem it to be."   


"I will not leave!" Mairon cried out, madness tainting his words. Deoridon flung Mairon back against the stony wall, Mairon collided with it, groaning weakly as pain fanned throughout his form.

 

Deoridon came upon him the next moment, his tall body pressing and holding Mairon to the wall, one hand weaving through Mairon's hair, the other digging its fingers into Mairon's thigh.     
  
  
"You may leave now, or you may still leave, but with my seed within you." Deoridon threatened.

  
Mairon inhaled through ragged, sobbing breaths, while Deoridon's hand wormed betwixt his thighs. A true sob broke forth from Mairon's throat as Deoridon's fingers prodded the supple, bruised flesh therein.  


"Make your choice." Deoridon spat into his ear. "I grow weary of your insolence, whore."

 

Tears, no more than several, unseen in the murky cell, crept down Mairon's face. He could not, would not endure another defilement.

His lord wanted him not, and so, there was no reason then, for him to stay, considerations other than these faded to the foreground in the face of the stark truth.  
  
  
Deoridon doubtless read his thoughts in his unguarded face, and Deoridon's expression of victory most foul stood visible despite the darkness, only a few words yet needed to climax his euphoria.

  
Mairon's lips opened, impaling himself upon the words he spoke next.

"I will go." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I always do, I ask for feedback, I love feedback, and it makes me eager to give out chapters. And a big thanks to all who have given feedback so far.


	9. Ruptured Flight

Mairon left Angband under cover of night, in the guise of a fanged bat. The transformation of his corporeal form had been a thing of agony for him, sapping the last of his strength.  
  
  
He swooped through the air, though he was hard pressed to hold himself aloft. The night was very dark, and in the lands about Angband that Melkor held domain over, full of great terrors. 

 

Mairon flew, til he could fly no more, he fell from the air, a collision with the ground imminent. Summoning the dregs of his strength, Mairon shifted his form, falling to the earth upon his hands and knees. The ground was cold, and littered with many rocks. 

Mairon then stood, only to crumple as he gained his feet.  
  
Mairon lay where he had fallen, upon the cold earth, an even greater cold within his own body. His robe spread like a puddle of blood about, and under him, a lash of color upon grey surroundings.  
  
  
Mairon clung to bitter waking, not wishing to face the memories that haunted him in oblivion. Struck through by the merciless cold that welled from the wound upon his spirit, Mairon yearned for heat.

The heat he no longer possessed, the heat of his forges...heat of Aule's forges he had once known...the burning heat Gothmog gave, the pale but no less dangerous heat of his Lord's body.

What Mairon ached for most, beyond and above warmth, was his Lord, his voice, beckoning Mairon to come to him, and then his hands, his dark gaze entrapping Mairon, his oft not seen wicked smile gracing his lieutenant's eyes.  
  
  
Mairon knew he would never be intimately privy to such again, for now, he was forsaken by his Lord.

 

   
Melkor was livid, and the forces of Angband cowered beneath his rage. Mairon had not been found, despite the numerous searches Deoridon had conducted, and such an absence incensed Melkor beyond description. 

Gothmog had wisely left upon the start of Melkor's wrath, leaving Deoridon and the others of Melkor's officers to to contest their Lord's climbing temper.  
  
  
  
The balrog went to his chambers, large and empty rooms, furnished only with benches and divans of stone, which occasionally harbored thick cushions and blankets when Gothmog deigned to take humanoid form.  Along the walls and floors, inset among them, were pits, where fires, perpetually tended to by the thralls, burned high and hot.

Gothmog reclined upon a divan, letting the flames rise up out of their pits and come unto him, bathing him in a great glow.  
  
  
Gothmog pondered the situation at hand, Mairon did not act in a manner that would so displease his Lord. To conceal himself for a length of time that would enrage Melkor so, was something Gothmog believed Mairon to be incapable of. 

Mairon attended to Melkor's every whim and want with precision and utmost obedience, striving to please Melkor, regarding even the slightest of Melkor's praise as a manifestation of a great reward.  
  
  
  
Mairon would have come as soon as he was made aware of his Lord's want for him.  Then, Gothmog reasoned, Mairon had not, so Mairon had not been made aware, he was therefore not residing in Angband at the present.    
  
  
Rising, Gothmog left his chambers, and journeyed to the throne room, he entered, seemingly unaffected by the darkness which oozed throughout the room in announcement of his Lord's mood. 

 

Gothmog went forward, and knelt before the throne, waiting til his Lord should notice him. He was indeed noticed, a short time later.  
  
  
  
"Gothmog, speak." Melkor commanded impatiently.  
  
  
Gothmog rose.

 

"My Lord, I believe the Lieutenant not be in the vicinity of Angband." the balrog stated.  
  
  
"What makes you say this?" Melkor questioned.  
  
  
"The Lieutenant would have doubtless answered your summons. The search parties should be sent beyond these walls, if it please you."  Gothmog replied.   
  
  
Melkor regarded the balrog with a fell look in his dark eyes, before waving his arm in gesture of dismissal.  
  
  
"Tell the search parties to go wither you suspect the Lieutenant to be. But if he is not found, and soon so, the fault will be yours."  
  
  
"Yes, my Lord." agreed Gothmog.

 

 

The search parties left soon after, with Gothmog at their head.  
  
  
  
Melkor quitted the black vastness of his throne room, and went instead to a council chamber, sitting alone at the head of the great table therein.  
  
  
At any other time, he would have Mairon at his side, and together they would sit, discussing plans and machinations of war, or else, he would have Mairon nude and spread across the table as some luscious feast might be.  
  
  
Now, either of these options were denied to him. Refusal from he who was his greatest servant was not a thing Melkor took lightly. Should Mairon be found, Melkor would see fit to remind him to whom his time was due. 

 

Gothmog returned a time later, alone, the search parties, he had dismissed, and sent away.  
  
  
  
In his arms, he bore Mairon. Guessing rightly the location of his Lord, he brought Mairon to the council chamber, and entered. 

 

Melkor rose tall and terrible from his seat as Gothmog made himself known, eyes fastening upon Mairon, seeing in the torchlight the gash that decorated his lieutenant's nose, the now dark, and crusting blood on his face.

 

Gothmog read anew, mounting anger in his Lord's face.   
  
  
"My Lord," he began, "I discovered the Lieutenant a short distance hence. This new injury he already bore."    
  
  
  
"Leave him, and go." Melkor hissed, former and recent rage climbing from his throat, mixing among his words. Obediently, though gently, Gothmog lay Mairon's grey and prone body upon the great table, and revoked his own presence, closing the chamber's doors as he left.    
  
  
Melkor turned unto his lieutenant, dark eyes searching out again the wound upon Mairon's face. Undoing each of the clasps upon Mairon's robe, Melkor searched too his lieutenant's body, seeking fresh bruising, the signs of another attack. 

  
  
His anger dispersed somewhat upon finding no new traces of abuse, save the gash upon the ridge of Mairon's nose.  
  
  
Melkor slotted the clasps of the crimson robe together, charred fingers making quick work of them. Mairon made no movement, lying still as if he was made from stone.

 

Melkor noted with peculiar feeling, that Mairon's hair and skin bore next to no color, his hair baring only the barest hint of flame, the cream of his skin only the faintest shadow of hue, the speckles that dotted Mairon's skin having faded out of sight.    
  
  
Melkor's burnt fingers dove upon Mairon's hair, running through the lackluster strands, attempting to coax forth even a modicum of color into it.  It was of no use, which the Vala knew, but since when did he care? 

He had been told by others he once knew so long ago, and told by Mairon himself, that he had no knowledge of when to cease. And this was decidedly true.

His lips came down upon Mairon's face, and were greeted by chilling cold, not the brilliant warmth that would burn beneath his lieutenant's skin. Even so, he trailed his lips over the pale, pale skin, minding not the now dried blood that lay in traces over Mairon's face. It was Mairon's blood, he took bitter comfort in the taste of it on his tonuge.

 

 

His own lips pressed over Mairon's forehead and nose, cheek and lips. Sharp  teeth skimmed the length of a delicately curved, yet strong jaw, and swept down the column of Mairon's throat.

 

But Mairon made no response, no movement. Oftentimes, Melkor would rouse Mairon from sleep in this manner, with his lips upon his face, and a hand between his legs, til Mairon woke, gold eyes staring out accusingly at his Lord, the heat of pleasure though in his face. Now, he lay silent,, and still.   
  
  
Melkor growled out in terrible frustration, and he flung his hands downward, driving them with great force onto the table on either side of Mairon's body.

  
This action served to wake Mairon, his eyes fluttering open, limbs scuttling uselessly over the table. Melkor's eyes bored down into his, and Mairon's body went rigid in fear at the raw anger contained within those dark orbs.

Melkor held his composure, an unnamed feeling keeping him from delivering his wrath upon Mairon.  
  


"Why did you leave me, when I gave you no permission to go?" he asked instead.   
  
  
Mairon's brows furrowed in deep confusion, lips trembling.  
  
  
  
"My Lord, you have dispensed me from your service...I no longer belong near you." Mairon whispered.  
  
  
  
"You told Gothmog this, that I had given your place to another, what reason had you for this?"  Melkor continued.  
  
  
  
  
"My Lord...you have indeed given my place to another."  Mairon answered, lifting himself upright, then hunching over in misery as cold and pain bloomed sudden within him.  
  
  
  
Mairon's agony tugged thin, brittle strings in Melkor's black heart, but, he was no creature of mercy.    
  


"If I wish you to be whipped for your insolent act, what would you say unto that?" Melkor hissed into Mairon's ear.  
  
  
  
"If it please my Lord, let it be done." Mairon answered immediately, the threat of physical injury of no consequence to him now.  

 

Melkor snarled, displeasure growing rapidly.  
  


"It pleases me not, to see you in a state such as this." Melkor thundered, though his tone bore more somberness then anger. His black hand raised, thumb tracing the gash across Mairon's finely shaped nose. 

"Whom was this done by?"

 

"The one who...took me, my Lord." Mairon conceded to reply, casting his eyes downward.   
  
  
"And who may that be?" Melkor rejoined, his voice now baring the thinnest thread of malice, a dark fury as sharp as finely buffed iron. 

 

  
"My Lord..." and there Mairon faltered, if he told his Lord the identity of his assailant, Melkor would be then sure to scorn him.  Deoridon already occupied his place by command of his Lord, perhaps now Melkor only awaited admission from Mairon's own mouth, to provide reason to fully demote him.  

 

  
Silence then, was the only hope he had now left.

 

Melkor however, shared not his lieutenant's views upon the matter.

  
"Tell me, Mairon." Melkor growled, his voice falsely calm. "Tell me."  
  
  


Mairon's lips did not move, his voice did not make itself heard. He could not tell his Lord.  
  
A sudden shiver tore through his body, a herald of cold, and the words would not come whether or no he wanted them to...his mouth was frozen...he was frozen...a flame, encased in ice...a frozen fire, an irony of the highest order. 

 

He began to laugh softly through shivers, a demented trill of amusement. 

Melkor stared at him, great brow and dark eyes together displaying concern, though Mairon was unable to heed it.   


Melkor seized his lieutenant's cold, slender hands, cupping them within his own, and blowing upon them, the heat of his breath immediately absorbed by cold skin. 

This action had been done by Mairon a long time ago, as Mairon had endeavored to treat his newly charred hands. Melkor had scoffed at the tender gesture at that time, believing it to be a symbol of leftover sentiment on his lieutenant's part, though now, it seemed a thing of wisdom.

 

Mairon's laughter abruptly stopped upon the first touch of warm air, and he raised his eyes, catching Melkor's gaze, beholding something reflected therein, which he desperately tried to decipher. 

 

The doors of the council chambers swung open, and Melkor released his lieutenant's hands.  
  


"Get out!" Melkor snarled over his shoulder.

 

Gothmog came forward despite the order.

 

"My Lord, I believe I may have found one of Lord Mairon's attackers."  the balrog stated simply.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want feedback, of course I do, I'm always very grateful for it. Thanks to everyone who has given feedback, and made new HCs.


	10. Unclear Expression

Melkor's brow furrowed, a dark line that smoothed away immediately.  
  
  
  
"Have you for certain found one of the Lieutenant's attackers?" Melkor questioned.  
  
  
  
"Yes, my Lord," began Gothmog, casting a glance behind Melkor, at Mairon, though Mairon averted his eyes. "The one I have found, was heard to be boasting by the captain of my guard."

 

"What was he boasting of?" Melkor said, voice dark, and foreboding.

"He boasted that he had been pleasured by the Lieutenant." Gothmog replied, and Mairon's sharp inhalation of breath was heard by both him and Melkor.  
  
  
  
"Speak no more." Melkor hissed, gloom creeping in, hanging low in the chamber, a mere symbol of his darkening mood. "Take me to this one you have found."  Melkor commanded, striding past Gothmog, to the doors.

Gothmog gave response with a bow, leaving the chamber when Melkor waved him forward. Melkor's eyes turned to Mairon over an armored shoulder.

  
"Come." Melkor ordered, holding out a charred hand in a clear summons. Mairon removed himself from the table, coming forward to Melkor, eyes downcast, every move, every step, burdened with uncertainty. Mairon took up a place behind Melkor, a few scant paces from walking at his Lord's side, yet the distance remained, and raised a new fury in Melkor.  
  
  
  
"Mairon." Melkor snarled, turning upon his heel, his outstretched hand morphing from a gesture of invite, to one of harshness, seizing Mairon about the throat, though yet, his grasp was not as cruel as its usual wont, fingers not gripping flesh as talons did, but resting only upon the taut skin.

 

Mairon's eyes bled fear when his gaze brushed his Lord's, his slender hands rising to wrap around Melkor's wrist, eyes falling as quick as an extinguished flame upon the marbled floor beneath his boots.

"Look at me, Mairon." Melkor's voice seethed, the anger driven tones falling raw upon Mairon's ears. "Or am I not deemed worthy of your gaze?"

 

"My Lord..." Mairon murmured, eyes lifting, "It is I who is no longer worthy of your gaze. One of the elf folk has more true claim than I to your favor, as of now."

 

 

Melkor's hand constricted at Mairon's last words, a blackened collar prohibiting air.   
  
  
  
"Do not dare speak in such a manner in my hearing again, or I will surely have you whipped." Melkor darkly informed. "I found you, I took you from the very bosom of the Valar themselves, do you dare to tell me that I erred in my taking of you?"

 

Mairon remained soundless, words impossible, beseeching Melkor through his dimly gleaming eyes.

 

"Do you heed me, Mairon?" Melkor hissed out, and finally, words came.

  
"Y..Yes, yes, my Lord." Mairon choked, fingers fruitlessly spasming about Melkor's wrist.

 

Melkor released Mairon at his words, and Mairon fell to his knees, lack of air having fettered away his nearly non existent strength. Melkor strode onward, displeasure swirling in his wake, a backward glance not to given to the doubled figure of his lieutenant.

Gothmog came to Mairon, lowering a burning hand to the Maia. Mairon slotted his slender hand within Gothmog's, and allowed himself to be raised to his feet.  
  
  
The two walked, side by side, after the dark form of their Lord. Mairon existed only in misery, Gothmog's thoughts were steaming with questions, riddling with himself.

  
Melkor went unto the common dungeons in the levels only slightly lower from the one he now walked. He knew the habits of his officers well, Gothmog retained a penchant for bringing offenders to this particular dungeon, til they were sent off to other, more horrid places or, rarely set free, upon his or Mairon's orders.     
  
  
Angband was vast, but places of containment were liberally spread throughout the fortress. The very nature of Angband demanded this placement, no one residing in Angband had any desire to journey further than their presently occupied space, to incarcerate or remove low ranked prisoners.   
  
  
  
The dungeon was entered by the three, and Gothmog stepped forward, leaving Mairon a lone figure behind Melkor's towering blackness.

 

Gothmog went unheeding through the cages of imprisoned beings, to a barred alcove set apart, ruby eyes sweeping into the cell, then retreating, a darker hue of confusion swirling into his gaze.

  
"My Lord." Gothmog called, "The prisoner is dead."

Breath hissed from between Melkor's teeth, and he went forward to the cell, dark eyes looking through iron bars, seeing the corpse that lay upon the ground, throat slit, dark blood dribbling in an ebbing flow from the slit skin.   
  
  
  
"Mairon, come here." the Vala ordered. Mairon came, and Melkor waved a hand at the figure laid out so grisly behind bars of iron. "Do you know this one?" came the inevitable question from Melkor's lips.

The answer burned upon the tip of Mairon's tongue, for though the face in his memories was obscured by tears and light so dim, he could taste still the bitter seed upon his mouth. But the being's blood that spilled out upon the ground was a waste, a chance of revenge now lost to time.

 

"I do know him, my Lord, he was of the three." Mairon declared, and his voice was thing of deathly calm.

"His name?" Melkor demanded, dark eyes catching and holding Mairon's.

 

"I know not." Mairon said.

"Then tell me what you do know." Melkor pressed.

The command roared in Mairon's ear. One of his attackers lay slain, a deed done by doubtless Deoridon's hand, though, his Lord and Gothmog knew this not. Mairon could not rejoice in even the death of one who had perpetrated in his defilement, for vengeance was tainted by the one who had so tainted Mairon.  
  
  
  
  
Yet, there was no lie that could be fabricated or woven to hide Deoridon's name. Any falsehood would only enrage Melkor the more when it was discovered. Deoriodn's name would have to be revealed, and the consequences, Mairon would therefore have to accept.   
  
  
Mairon let his lips part, dragging words to his tonuge, making ready to expel them. Yet, at the moment before the first syllable dropped, a figure approached from behind, and Mairon's eyes grew wide at the sound of the tread that grated in his ears.

"My Lord," Deoridon's voice rang out, addressing Melkor.

 

"Speak." Melkor said, not sparing even a look in Deoridon's direction, a thing that sparked a flare of pleasure within Mairon. 

 

Deoridon began to speak, but the words faded to nothing in Mairon's ears, overshadowed and drowned by Mairon's thoughts of irony. The very fact that Deoridon stood in the same chamber as him, speaking to Melkor without reproach, while the being he had just killed, and the one he defiled, stood and lay respectively no more than a few paces from him, was a horrid humor.

 

 

Mairon could appreciate a well formed jest, though one had never been made so dearly at his expense.   
  
  
  
Laughter therefore, seemed an appropriate response to such a jest, and laugh he did, soft peals of crazed amusement trickling forth. Dimly, Mairon knew he made a fool of himself with such display, but who was here to see?  
  
  
  
Melkor knew his very spirit, he of all else was entitled to Mairon's laughter. Gothmog mattered not, he would not betray Mairon by petty gossip. And Deoridon, had indeed seen Mairon at his present lowest, had brought him to such lowest.

  
   
So Mairon laughed, and laughed.

 

Mairon's laughter came to Melkor's ears, and Melkor's features twisted with displeasure. As of late, he had been treated to this disembodied laughter from his lieutenant, and Melkor liked it not, it bore no real amusement, despite its desperate appeals to seem that it did.

 

 

Indeed, Mairon's laughter was as rare as a smile from Namo's lips. Of only thrice could Melkor recall his Lieutenant's voice raised in true laughter.

 

 

 _Once...In Almaren, Melkor had heard Mairon's voice, fair and delighted, from behind a copse of bushes. Though Melkor desired to see what made the little Maia laugh so, a figure was approaching, Aule, coming to search for his Maia..._  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_Twice...Melkor had made a delightfully rude jest concerning Manwe and his brood of eagles, and Mairon had trilled out two short notes of nervous, though pure, laughter. The sound gone as quickly as it had come..._  
  
  
  
_Thrice...Mairon was in his arms, cheeks colored highly, hair and eyes aflame, skin smelling of spice, lips more enticing than any ripe fruit. Melkor claimed those lips, and through the pressure of such a union, Mairon laughed, a ringing note of joy..._

Mairon's present laughter was akin to none of those times. And such was the fault of Mairon's unknown attackers.  


Melkor regarded the body before him through a lull in Mairon's hysterics, dark eyes narrowed. This was but one of three of Mairon's attackers, two that had dared touch Mairon roamed still free, still making attacks upon his lieutenant, the gash upon Mairon's fine nose bore testament to such.    
  
  
And still, this one was slaughtered, having not even the decency to die by Melkor's hand for his offense. He had been slain surely, lest he reveal the identity of the two others, this Melkor reasoned.  
  
  
  
And such would not do in the least.

 

 

 "Gothmog, walk with me." Melkor ordered. "Deoridon, escort the lieutenant to his chambers, and guard him well." Melkor continued, noting only that Mairon's unnatural laughter had ceased, and heeding not the fear that took home in Mairon's face.   
  
  
  
  
"Yes, my Lord." replied Deoridon.  
  
  
  
  


The for left together, though in the halls outside the dungeon they parted, Gothmog and Melkor leaving together, and Mairon followed them with his eyes, then ears, til their footsteps had faded.  
  
  
Deoridon seized Mairon's slim wrist, propelling Mairon ahead of him, down the torchlit passageway.  
  
  
  
"I told you to leave." Deoridon hissed.  
  
  
"I left indeed, then was found, and brought back. The fault is not mine." Mairon retorted. 

A growl of anger was his answer, and last burst of laughter escaped Mairon.  
  
  
"It is no matter. Other ways may be found to be rid of you." Deoridon deigned to say. And truthfully, Mairon found himself in full agreement, though in his mind, the words were inverted.   
  
  
It mattered not what Deoridon did, what pain and humiliation he thought to inflict upon Mairon, for Mairon feared he had long lost the one who to him, mattered most.  
  
  
  
  
  


  
   
  
  
  
 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave feedback, I'll be ever so grateful. And thanks to those who have.


	11. Wavering Place

Deoridon journeyed with Mairon back the officers wing, maintaining a crushing grasp upon Mairon's wrist.

 

 

The remaining werewolves stationed at Melkor's door rose and uttered low growls of welcome when Mairon became apparent to their yellowed eyes, from far down the lengthy corridor that connected the officers chambers, but Mairon made no move towards them.

Deoridon would likely see fit to slaughter them as he had their brother, if Mairon attempted to offer the werewolves favor.  
  
  
Deoridon glanced at the werewolves, a decision coming quickly to him.  
  
  
Halting at the doors of Mairon's chambers, and releasing Mairon's wrist, Deoridon hit the small of Mairon's back, shoving Mairon through the doors.  
  
  
  
Mairon's foot caught upon the threshold, and he fell, sprawling upon the floor on his belly. Deoridon spared only enough time to shut and bolt the heavy doors, before seizing Mairon by the hair, and dragging him up, and walked, hauling Mairon beside him, into the bedchamber.  

Mairon dug his heels into the marbled floor beneath, refusing to let himself be handled with ease.

 

Melkor, when he fancied to hold Mairon by his hair, or flung him down upon his bed or council tables, grasped his robes so harshly the silk tore, was a different matter. To Melkor he belonged. To Deoridon, he did not.  

Still, Deoridon possessed greater strength than Mairon did, and despite Mairon's designs of disturbance, Mairon was taken where Deoridon willed.

Shoving Mairon upon his knees with a heavy push of his hand applied to Mairon's shoulder, Deoridon seated himself upon Mairon's bed, sequestering Mairon between the space of his legs. 

 

"I cannot do what I wish to you, I have been ordered to guard you, and my Lord would surely find discrepancies in my service should I take you and leave any traces of it." Deoridon mused. 

 

Mairon's face twisted, and he attempted to move back from the cage of Deoridon's legs, only to be held forcibly in place by the grip in his hair.  
  
  
  
  
"Now, do not play coy with me." Deoridon chastised, in amused tones.  "Such lost all credibility when you so invitingly took my cock."   
  
  
  
  
Disgust bubbled in Mairon's belly, a phantom feeling of a thick invader within his body.  
  
  
  
  
"Come now." Deoridon said, pulling Mairon ever closer, heedless of the fear and mounting disgust he reaped with such action. "Your mouth I can still make use of."  
  
  
Mairon's hands rose, clawing at Deoridon's knees, nails paining despite the thick fabric of Deoridon's trousers. Deoridon's hand flashed out, striking Mairon across the face, calling forth a redness in Mairon's face, unnatural under Mairon's now too pale skin.   
  
  
Mairon's fingers froze as pain flared across his face, but the pain did not stall his speech. 

 

 

"If you dare to place any part of you in my mouth, I assure you, you will lose it." Mairon snarled, dim eyes gleaming a pale yellow, a hue brighter than moments before, an echo of a ferocity of a werewolf, though they lost the fleeting color immediately.

  
  
  
  
  
"You will pleasure me now, or later, I will return with another, and I shall pry out your teeth." Deoridon hissed, anger stirring.  
  
  
  
Mairon bared his teeth in mockery of Deoridon's words, a snarling curse slipping from between them as they parted. The torches of Mairon's chambers had been replenished by his thralls, and their light gleamed on Mairon's white teeth.  
  
  
Mairon's teeth were not as sharp as Melkor's, indeed, all were rounded, save for two, parted from each other by four other teeth, this pair of teeth curved into two petite, exquisite fangs, sharp as the most finely crafted sword.  
  
  
Such fangs were the result of minor augmentations done by Mairon at times to his most favored corporeal form, he bore the fangs while in the guise of a vampire bat, and oftentimes, manifested them into his humanoid form.    

 

Deoridon's eyes fastened on the fangs harbored in Mairon's mouth, and from the folds of his tunic, he withdrew an object that caused Mairon's breath to catch.  
  
  
"Do you recall this?" Deoridon questioned, holding the circular metal bracket aloft.

 

Mairon made no answer, but yet he could taste the metallic item, feel it in his mouth, a hard pressure behind his teeth.  
  
  
Deoridon's hand locked within Mairon's hair, forcing Mairon's head rigid, and with calculated speed, Deoridon wedged the circle of metal between Mairon's parted teeth, then onward, giving it a place where the ache of memory still throbbed in Mairon's mouth.  

 

Mairon gagged when the cold metal touched his flesh, mouth constricting about the bitter ring of iron, memory flaring. Fear shone from Mairon's eyes, strong with the knowledge of what was to come.

Fight, Mairon could not, his current strength was only enough to keep him from the unconsciousness that ever tugged at him. 

 

Deoridon reached down, prying Mairon's hands from his knees, and one by one, guiding them to the front of his trousers.

 

"I cannot make much of the lacing with only one hand." Deoridon supplied, yanking cruelly upon Mairon's hair with the hand of his that grasped the tumbled curls, to drive his words with full understanding.

 

 

Mairon's eyes narrowed, understanding what Deoridon wished him to do. Mairon's fingers grew rigid, a thought coming to him, though it faded ere it could take true shape. Mairon had no strength for bloody mutilation with his bare hands, indeed, he had no leverage against Deoridon, not when he was on his knees before him, Deoridon's hand tight in his hair.    

 

 

Slowly, fingers stiff with fear and constraining abhorrence, Mairon unlaced Deoridon's trousers, mind receiving yet another thought.

Why had Melkor saw fit to place Deoridon as his guard? Surely, others could have been provided, Melkor had no need to choose specifically Deoridon, unless, unless...unless his Lord knew of Deoridon's deeds against him, and so, placed Deoridon with him as punishment for the weakness Mairon had exhibited in allowing himself to be taken.

 

It was a crazed thought, and Mairon banished it, knowing it had come only as a distraction from the distasteful work that held captive his hands.  
  
  
The laces slithered from their rings, hanging long and loose, and Mairon yanked his hands back, wishing for no contact with Deoridon's skin. 

The placement of Mairon's hands mattered little to Deoridon, his cock was free of his trousers, and his own hand fast in Mairon's hair. By the lead of his too firm grasp, Deoridon pulled Mairon's head level, then down about his cock, infiltrating the gap of Mairon's lips, the metal ring, sheathing his arousal within the soft wetness of Mairon's mouth. 

  
Mairon choked, a reflexive action purely, for despite his spasming throat muscles, the rest of his body was a stalwart wall, the stillness of a vile fear.  
  
  
A groan left Deoridon's lips, fingers curling into an even tighter hold upon Mairon's hair, sending pain spiraling across Mairon's scalp. A moan of pain rose from Mairon's throat, though, it was interpreted otherwise by Deoridon.     
  
  
"You indeed enjoy this." Deoridon declared. Mairon could offer no words indicative to the contrary, and rageful tears sprang into his eyes, his only gesture of malcontent.

Deoridon's hips canted in slow thrusts, Deoridon using Mairon's hair as a pulley by which to drag Mairon's head forward, then yank it back, though Deoridon soon tired of such actions.

Deoridon's fingers regained their lock in Mairon's hair, forcing Mairon's head into a rigid posture as his hips took on a steady rhythm, thrusts equal, and each equally harsh, driving his arousal to Mairon's throat before it withdrew to repeat.   
  
  
Mairon slumped upon his knees, held upright by only the painful support of his wrenched hair, tears dropping one by one from his dull eyes, clear gems glittering upon his cheeks. His hands took a grasp once more on Deoriodon's knees, though they did not grip in defiance, but a desperate necessity for anchor.  
  
  
  
Above him, Deoridon gave vocal adulation to the pleasure he was wringing from the damp cavern of Mairon's mouth, and his deep groans grated within Mairon's ears.  
  
  
Mairon had ever only ever called forth such wanton sounds from his Lord, and so shame reared up inside him, ever too eager to point out that despite his current position being purely of Deoridon's design, it was he who was responsible for the pleasure Deoridon gained, and was that not infidelity to his Lord? 

  
Though Mairon had been privy to numerous couplings, he had never participated in any but the ones initiated by Melkor.

His tears came more numerous, gems turned now in glittering rivers under the torchlight. His lips and throat quivered with the vibrations of repressed sobs, and their tremors broke away Deoridon's little restraint.   
  
  
A brutal thrust propelled Deoridon's cock into Mairon's throat, and there Deoridon's climax came, heralded by a grunt of release, ejaculate spurting forth, hot and thick to fill Mairon's mouth.    
  
  
Deoridon did not withdraw, his member laying limp and heavy upon Mairon's tongue, a cork of flesh.  
  
  
"Swallow." Deoridon hissed. And Mairon did as he was bid, with a speed fueled with desperation. Despite the quickness of his compliance, the vile taste of the seed he ingested still burned upon the insides of his mouth.  
  
  
  
  
Deoridon deemed fit to withdraw then, his hand leaving Mairon's hair at the same time. Mairon fell upon the floor, and there lay upon his back, his sobs given the freedom of sound. Deoridon abandoned his seat upon the bed, and crouched beside Mairon, resting a grey hand upon the taut planes of Mairon's belly.   
  
  
  
Mairon jolted terribly at the touch, body quavering in accordance. Deoridon smiled upon him, an expression of satisfaction and victory.   
  
  
"You are lovely upon you back, lovelier than you are upon your knees." Deoridon informed him. Mairon's eyes closed, chest heaving. Deridon's hand lifted from Mairon's belly, its pressure lightly skimming the roundness of Mairon's thigh, before removing.   

Deoridon laced his trousers, and stood, stepping over Mairon's shaking form, and let himself into Mairon's boudoir.

 

Mairon remained upon the floor as if he was the plaything of some tyrannical child, a doll thrown to the side after its present appeal had dimmed, and indeed, Mairon felt as such.  

Why, why, had Melkor given Deoridon command to guard him? Was he truly now of no consequence to his Lord, and so much so that Melkor would throw him to the hands of his tormentors, however unwittingly? All answers that could be formulated pointed only to an answer in the positive, and upon that assurance, wails crept anew from Mairon's swollen lips, tainted by seed and bile. 

 

 

 

Melkor and Gothmog together walked the halls, still a times away from their destination.

 

"My Lord, is it wise to leave the Lieutenant accompanied by only one guard?" Gothmog questioned,  his ruby eyes daring to seek out Melkor's. Melkor met his gaze, dark eyes bleeding irritation.   
  
  
"You dare question my judgment?" Melkor challenged.  
  
  
  
A hiss of breath left Gothmog, a sigh disguised as an escaping plume of smoke.  
  
  
  
"No, my Lord, I merely wish to question whether one might be overpowered by two." Gothmog replied pointedly.

 

"Deoridon has proven himself to be competent. He shall protect the lieutenant accordingly." was Melkor's reply, and from the tones such a reply was delivered in, Gothmog knew better than to press further.    
  
  
  
  
"This Deoridon, for what length of time shall he occupy the Lieutenant's position?" Gothmog queried, and a look of pure rage was sent his way from Melkor's dark eyes, though such faded instantly.  
  
  
  
"Until I deem the Lieutenant fit to return to his duties." returned Melkor.  
  
  
Gothmog gave no response, and they walked on in silence.  
  
  
  
Melkor intended to search for Mairon's attackers, and in a first course of action, wished to question himself the captain of Gothmog's guard, who had brought to Gothmog''s attention the first found of Mairon's attackers.  
  
  
  
Gothmog held his counsel, knowing better than to suggest otherwise. When matters concerned Mairon, Melkor became _affected_.   

 

  
Though, Gothmog could not help indulge in his own thoughts concerning the matter. The balrog did not deem it wise in the least to leave Mairon with so little guard, and leastways with Deoridon.  
  
  
  
It may have only been residual indignation from seeing another in Mairon's place that prompted the thought, but Gothmog recalled the look in Deoridon's eyes when Melkor ordered him to take Mairon under his guard.

It was a look of _hunger_.    
  
  
Slowly, in silent contemplation, a suspicion took shape in Gothmog's mind, though, upon it's completion and birth, Gothmog ferreted it away in the recesses of his mind.  

 

It could not be so, what he suspected. It was a thought, a rumor borne from dislike for Deoridon, and preference for Mairon, Gothmog told himself, for, if it was true, Mairon had been fed as a morsel to a ravenous carrion bird.  
  
  
No, Deoridon was not of Mairon's attackers. He could not be, one who served Melkor so ardently and pompously as Deoridon would not so much as think of laying a hand upon the one who held Melkor's greatest favor.  
  
No, Mairon's attackers were elsewhere, and were yet to be found. And find them Gothmog would, if Melkor did not first do so.  
  
  
And should he be successful, he would bring them to his Lord.

The barracks of the orc guards had been gained, and together Gothmog and Melkor entered, Gothmog's thoughts now turned to the acquisition of knowledge, and no longer engaged in contemplation of theories.  

 

 

 

   
And away, away down the halls, in the safety of his chambers, with danger only paces nearby, Mairon lay motionless, though tears still fell, as dewdrops from a severed plant.  
   

 

  
       

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave feedback, I appreciate it. And thanks to those who already have.


	12. Distant Call

The orc captain fairly shivered in fear, looking at the retreating backs of his superiors.

 

 

Melkor came not often to personally demand information from the ranks of his lowest soldiers, leaving such tasks to the management of Mairon and Mairon's underlings. But yet, unexpectedly, Melkor had come, and demanded a repeat of the latest rumors the orcs shared. This in itself was not unusual, as Melkor required a tally to be kept of any gossip circulating throughout Angband, and occasionally ordered it combed for traitorous words.    
  
  
  
The orc captain told him all, all he had heard and reported to Gothmog before. A Maia officer had been in company with a regiment of orcs, and lesser officers, and had regaled them with a tale of physical pleasure, pleasure he claimed had been administered to him by the famed Lieutenant of Angband.  
  
  
  
Melkor had listened in complete silence, and departed, Gothmog skimming at his heels.   
  
  
And the orc captain looked on, any curiosity demolished by fear. 

 

 

 

"My Lord, shall we question the officers?" Gothmog queried, keeping stride with Melkor as the Vala strode down the long hall, away from the orc barracks.   
  
  
  
"I shall not waste time in such a venture." Melkor hissed, impatience sharpening his words. "The lieutenant knows well enough who foisted their attentions upon him, and he will give them up to me." 

 

 

"Why though has he not yet then given them up?" Gothmog wondered, eliciting a snarl of anger Melkor.  
  
  
  
"He is perhaps ashamed, though he denies me justice, and he should only be ashamed for such." Melkor snarled in answer. "Nevertheless, he will reveal the truth to me."

"As you say, my Lord." was the immediate response.  
  
  
  
"You are dismissed, Gothmog." Melkor added. "I will send Deoridon to you, and you may continue your duties."

 

Gothmog bowed, and veered off down a passageway, leaving Melkor alone.

Melkor made his way to the officers wing, tread heavy in anger, each step shaking the walls. In this way, his coming was heralded to Deoridon, and Deoridon returned from the boudoir where he had been lounging, taking Mairon from his place upon the floor and depositing him in his bed, and setting himself at the door of Mairon's bedchamber, presenting an appearance of a perfect guard when Melkor entered.   

 

   
Melkor's hand swept out, a gesture of dismissal.

  
"Return to your duties." Melkor ordered shortly, and Deoridon bowed, and left.

 

 Melkor went to Mairon's bed, looking down upon the figure of his lieutenant. Dull, yellow eyes met his, and a pang of something unnamed rose high in Melkor's chest, higher than the anger that also resided there, stopping the rageful demand he was about to utter upon his lips.

  
"My Lord." Mairon said, eyes falling, raising from his prone position, to sit upon the very edge of the bed.  
  
  
  
Melkor's blackened hand dove down, taking Mairon's chin, tilting up his head.

 

"Have you been at rest?" the Vala questioned in muted tones, dark gaze boring into Mairon's.   
  
  
  
"I have, my Lord." Mairon replied.

  
Melkor's thumb meditatively traveled over Mairon's lips, and Mairon jolted at the slight pressure, fear springing into his eyes.

 

Anger weighed together Melkor's brows at Mairon's reaction, his hand leaving Mairon's face. Melkor lips twisted in a frown, and he contemplated his lieutenant in silence, Mairon never, never, shied from Melkor's touch, even when he was unawares.

 

To do so now, with no apparent cause, was unthinkable.

 

Silently cursing Deoridon, Mairon kept his eyes upon Melkor's, not wishing to reap further anger other than the one that now broiled behind the film of Melkor's dark eyes.

 

"What troubles you so, that you would spurn my touch?" Melkor requested, voice calm, but no less dangerous in the wrath it carried, his question meaningless, only spoken for the benefit of a strategic opening.

 

"You _know_ what troubles me, my Lord." Mairon said, not bothering to reign in the annoyed note that clung to his words, even as he knowingly formed the opening that Melkor desired.

 

  
Melkor nearly smiled, the muscles of his cheeks twitching in involuntary action. Mairon had sounded _normal.  
_

Melkor was used to a pensive note in Marion's addresses to him, Melkor was well aware that many of the things he did caused no end of irritation and strife to his lieutenant, and so did not consider the snappish aspects of Mairon's personality disrespect when they were turned against him.   
  
  
  
Yet, Mairon was far indeed from normal, despite the sound of his words, and the seriousness of the situation was dire.   
  
  
  
Letting his charred hand fall onto Mairon's shoulder, Melkor seated himself beside his lieutenant, hand falling to brush along Mairon's arm, and with great force of will, Mairon held himself still.  
  
  
  
"I do not desire to see you thusly." Melkor confided, his voice low, as though revealing a secret.   
  
  
  
Mairon merely stared at him, brows dipping ever so slightly.  
  
  
  
  
  
"In what way do you not desire to see me?" Mairon asked, letting convenient confusion cloud what he already knew the answer to.  
  
  
  
  
"Broken." Melkor responded simply, and Mairon bowed his head as the word echoed through his mind.

 

_Broken._

Melkor then acknowledged that he was damaged, that he was used, that he had been taken. But this Mairon already knew, so what then were his Lord's words, besides a form of subtle torture?  
  
  
  
Indignation stirred within him, and spite, mixing into a clawing feeling that ripped at his chest, its talons formed from the cold dwelling within him. Mairon sprang up from the bed, emotions funneling into temporary energy.

  
  
"I assure you, my Lord, I am not broken. Look upon my body, look upon my mind. They are indeed whole."   

"The are indeed whole, yet not as they should be." was Melkor's response.   
  
  
  
The truth in Melkor's words spurred a spear of jealously, and outrage to leap to Mairon's tonuge, and words came fast after.  
  
  
  
"I admit without falsehood, my Lord, that I am inconvenienced at the moment with my troubles, but do you now have so little care for my service that you would so truly replace me?" Mairon hissed out, anger taking control and outing what would usually be kept hidden in the face of Melkor's anger.  
  
  
  
Melkor's response came swiftly, rage flourishing anew at the confusion Mairon's words drew from him.  Seizing Mairon's wrist, Melkor drew Mairon back to him with uncalculated strength, intending to only seat Mairon in his former place, but instead, yanking upon his arm with enough force to fling Mairon down, tumbled across the bed.

Mairon gasped, though the impact with the soft mattress caused hardly no pain, the action stirred a plethora of fresh memories.   
  
  
Melkor lent over Mairon, drawn by Mairon's gasp, but the visage that swam before Mairon's eyes was not Melkor's, but Deoridon's. A blackened hand came to Mairon's waist, intending to bring Mairon upright, but Mairon felt only Deoridon's fingers at his waist. 

 

  
"Get away!" Mairon screamed, body thrashing suddenly, legs kicking, and arms pushing, til he no longer felt pressure upon his wrist or waist. "Do not touch me, filth!"  
  
  
  
"Mairon." Melkor growled out, and the one word was the only thing needed to draw Mairon from his madness.

 

Mairon's eyes widened, his frame shuddering in exertion.

 

"My Lord, forgive me...I did not...my actions were without thought..." Mairon began in a horrified plea.  
  
  
  
"Enough." Melkor declared, and Mairon fell silent. "Enough of this. Tell me now, who are the ones who brought you to this state."   
  
  
  
Mairon's eyes narrowed, fear giving way once more before overwhelming anger, panic, rage, despair and pain coalescing within him.    
  
  
  
"Why would you care, _my Lord_ , when you give to those same ones my _titles_ and _place!_ " Mairon hissed, his yellow tinged eyes exploding into pools of gold, flashing accusation at Melkor.  
  
  
Melkor parted his lips to rail against the blatant disrespect presented by his lieutenant, only to be held quiet by the invisible hand of Mairon's words.   
  
  
  
_...When you give to those same ones my titles and place._

 

Mairon's eyes dimmed, gold fading from them, heated anger choked by the coldness of his body. His damning words to Melkor had taken much of his nonexistent strength to utter, and fear of his Lord's retribution against those words only served to further drain his sorely taxed strength.  
  
  
  
When Melkor's eyes came to rest upon his lieutenant, after a few short moments spent pondering Mairon's words, he was greeted with the sight of the pale, still body of his lieutenant sprawled out across the mattress, silk robe draping like a coat of blood across the curves of his body, chest rising and falling in breath, but eyes unseeing, unconsciousness having claimed Mairon yet again.  
  


  
  


Gothmog paced the halls with Deoridon, in journey to a council chamber. Deoridon had sought him out, and had consigned to formulate minor weapon plans with him, a thing that would fall into Mairon's purview, but now, was Deoridon's responsibility.

 

 

They entered the council chamber after a short time, Deoridon seating himself at the iron table occupying the centre of the room, unrolling a thick scroll with a flick of his wrist. Such an action caused something long and thin to shine out dully upon the dark leather covering Deoridon's arm, and Gothmog's eyes were drawn to it, as he seated himself across from Deoridon.  
  
  
  
Then, Deoridon shifted his arm, to retrieve another scroll from the iron case containing scrolls, that he had brought with him and set upon a chair next to him, and the torchlight revealed the glittering thing to be a strand of hair. The hair was nearly colorless in the angle that the light shone upon it, but Deoridon shifted his arm yet again, and the hair caught the light, and shone once more, a muddled color that could be red, that could be orange, and though the colors were muted, Gothmog recognized them immediately.  
  
  
How indeed could he fail to recognize the hair of Mairon's most favored corporeal form?

  
  
But, why, why had a strand of Mairon's hair any place on the sleeve of Deoridon?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
 

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave feedback, I'll love you for it. Thanks to everyone who has, and who have followed this story so far.


	13. No Envy

The meeting carried on and concluded without any hitch on behalf of Gothmog's part, although the Balrog's eyes drifted again and again to the dully gleaming hair upon Deoridon's arm.

The Balrog had not yet devised a way to obtain the hair, and should Deoridon leave still bearing it on his sleeve, there would be no way to obtain it afterwards.

 

However, when Deoridon rose to leave, the strand slipped away from smooth leather, drifting to the floor. Gothmog's eyes followed it, noting the place where it came to rest.

 

Deoridon took his leave, unknowing of what he had left behind. When the door had boomed shut on Deoridon's heels, Gothmog crouched, and pinioned the hair between his sharp nails, then rose,  moving towards a torch and holding the hair aloft to inspect it closer.

 

Yes, this was indeed Mairon's.

 

Keeping the thin, shining thing clamped firmly in his talons, Gothmog took his own leave of the council chamber, sliding away in the direction opposite Deoridon in an agitated haze of smoke and fire, making directly for the officers wing.

 

The doors of Mairon's chambers were ajar when Gothmog entered the wing, and it was those doors he went through, searching for either of his masters.

Melkor he encountered first, the Vala was leaning upon the frame of the doorway that led into Mairon's bedchamber, gazing at something within the chamber that his form obscured, but that Gothmog was certain was Mairon.

 Suddenly the Vala shifted, a space appearing between his broad shoulder and the doorframe.

 

Gothmog came forward, taking a place in the newly revealed space, standing wedged in the doorway beside Melkor, haste brushing away any misgivings he carried for intruding upon his Lord.

  
"Look at him." Melkor said, with a tight nod indicating Mairon, who lay in the bedchamber's confines, motionless upon his bed. "Is he not beautiful still?" 

"He is indeed, my Lord." Gothmog murmured, though his words were backed by no small amount of confusion.

 

"He was the greatest thing I took from the Valar, as the three upon my crown were the greatest of that which I took from the elves." Melkor continued, as if he had not heard Gothmog's words, and Gothmog knew he had indeed not.

Melkor was not aware of his presence, the Vala was entrenched too deeply in his own thoughts, and was giving no mind to what occurred about him. 

 

Gothmog knew he should take his leave, and quickly, for the thoughts Melkor were speaking aloud were surely not ones which Melkor would wish to be heard by any other ears.

Yet, Gothmog stayed, held by some force of curiosity.

 

"When I took the three, the elves amassed armies to reclaim them, yet, when I took Mairon, the Valar stirred not one finger. My brethren claimed to care for life, yet three lifeless objects raised more ire in them than the loss of one of their own."

Gothmog took in Melkor's words in silence, knowing of no answer that would be a fitting response to this small speech, though it did not matter.

 

"I was the only one that understood what potential he offered. He gave me himself, and in return, I promised power and freedom to him, and fulfillment of his wishes beyond all imagination. Degradation, is not what I promised him." 

"It was no fault of your own, my Lord." Gothmog ventured to say, if only prompted by the feeling that he should say something, and this time, his words were heard by Melkor. 

 

"Gothmog." Melkor hissed, his head swiveling, eyes gazing into Gothmog's burning ones, anger rising with the sure knowledge that the Balrog had been privy to his spoken thoughts. "What reason do you have for being here?"

   
In response, Gothmog held up the hair, which was still grasped between the pressure of one nail and another.

 

Melkor's eyes narrowed, as the hair glinted, showcasing its origins.

  
"This was upon Deoridon." Gothmog revealed.

  
Melkor's lips tightened, and for several moments, there was no sound. When Melkor spoke again, his voice was low, anger enunciating every syllable.

 

"Deoridon is responsible for this."

 

"Yes, my Lord." Gothmog murmured, and it was neither an accusation nor confirmation, yet it was both. Gothmog's ruby eyes watched Melkor hawkishly, Melkor's fist clenched, rage steadily filling his eyes.

Then, in a gleam of black, Melkor turned, striding from the doorway, and into the bedchamber, coming to a halt beside Mairon's bed. Gothmog's eyes tracked him, body taut in anticipation of Melkor's next action, whatever it might be.

 

But Melkor merely leaned over, supporting his weight upon one hand pressed firmly against the mattress, the other lowering, fingers brushing against Mairon's pale forehead.

The cold of Mairon's skin leached heat from Melkor's fingertips, and Melkor slid them in a trail from Mairon's temple to chin. Dipping his head low, nestling it in the curve of Mairon's throat, Melkor whispered into his Lieutenant's ear.

 

"Mairon."

  
The word was a command, a call to wakefulness that penetrated even the sickened slumber Mairon resided in.  Mairon's eyes opened, reflecting Melkor's looming figure.  
  
  
Easing his charred hands beneath Mairon's waist, Melkor drew Mairon upright, and settled him against the cushions set across the headboard. Mairon's body stiffened at Melkor's touch, eyes widening in fear.

"My Lord." came the words, soft and frail.

 

"Did Deoridon indeed defile you?" Melkor demanded bluntly, undermining Mairon's greeting with brutality of one grown weary of waiting. /

 

Mairon gasped, eyes widening. His Lord knew. Mairon had not let one word of Deoridon's actions pass his lips, so how then could his Lord know of them?

 

Melkor's fingers drew in when no words were forthcoming, digging into the flesh of Mairon's waist, not a conscious action, but merely one ingrained after so many years of gripping the armrests of his throne when something saw fit to displease him. 

To Mairon, the action meant more, and he took it as a manifestation of Melkor's displeasure in him.

 

"Y..Yes, my Lord." Mairon choked out, tears welling from his eyes as the words passed his lips.  
  
  
There would be no return now. The truth was revealed, the consequences would soon follow.

 

Melkor's hands relaxed, one rising, curling under Mairon's chin, raising his head up, thumb flicking over the scarring gash upon Mairon's nose.

 

"Was this then also done by Deoridon's hand?"

  
Mairon gave a fragile nod, and Melkor growled, a low and resonant sound that seeped from between his teeth, darkening the room, his hand falling from Mairon's face, finding a resting place within the dull tresses of Mairon's hair.  
  
  
"Tell me what he did to you. Tell me all." Melkor hissed.

Misery. This was misery. Melkor truly held no favor for him, if he would give the order to have Mairon recount his humiliation. Yet, Mairon refused to let the last moments of his service to Melkor be spent in disobedience.

 

 "...He...came upon me in the halls," Mairon began haltingly. "Him, and two of his companions, I was seized, and stripped by him...his companions used my mouth, and he my body..."

 

A dark flame ignited in Melkor's eyes, charred fingers clenching in Mairon's hair, drawing the hair away from a certain spot upon Mairon's neck.

 

"...Two times more, within my own chambers, he gave me his attentions." Mairon continued, his eyes glazed a with glassy sheen, focused unseeing on the far wall, unaware of the rage building in Melkor's own eyes.  "He used my body, then...my mouth."  
  
  
  
Mairon's words ended abruptly, letting silence permeate the air. Melkor's eyes swept the length of Mairon's body, rage bringing with it the timber of memory, every mark upon Mairon that Melkor could recall only fueling his rage.

Melkor's eyes alighted upon the bite that still soiled Mairon's throat, the blood now dark, dried and brittle, bruising blotching along the side of Mairon's neck, made even uglier to Melkor's eyes now that he had knowledge of its creator.

Melkor snarled, hand rapidly withdrawing from Mairon's hair, his vision tinged with crimson.

  
"I have been made a fool of!" the Vala ground out, face twisting in a most horrible expression of anger, as the events unfolding to the present flashed before him. The one responsible for his Lieutenant's attack had been so near all this time, while he was unawares.

 

Mairon's eyes regained their clarity at Melkor's words, believing the words to be meant for him. He had indeed made a fool of his Lord, had proven himself weak, not strong enough to resist three lesser beings.    
  
  
He had not been enough to defend himself, yet, he had _tried_...Melkor's eyes met his at that moment, and Mairon saw only the rage in them.

 

Words came spilling past Mairon's lips, given freedom by the fear of the raw anger in Melkor's face.

 

"M..My Lord...I tried, I fought...I fought them even when it was of no avail...I did not want it...I did not want them..b..believe me, my Lord, I beg...I fought..."  
  
  
His pitiful plea tapering out, Mairon buried his face within his hands, and sobbed, heedless of nothing else.

The anger in Melkor's face cooled, though it remained, bashing against the gates of his eyes.  
  
  
His blackened hands reached out to Mairon, as he delivered a command to Gothmog, who remained still ensconced in the doorway.  
  
  
"Find Deoridon, and _bring him here_."  
  
  
Gothmog bowed low, and departed.

**Author's Note:**

> This a a very special work to me, so if anyone is willing to give feedback, please do. I'll be very grateful. The chapters will probably hit double digits.


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